


Original Work, The Miscellaneous Archive

by jacksgreysays (jacksgreyson)



Series: Original Work [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2018-11-21 20:35:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 135
Words: 61,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11365149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacksgreyson/pseuds/jacksgreysays
Summary: Archive of Miscellaneous Original Fiction, originally posted on tumblr





	1. Word Prompt (Y5): Young

_[[Do you want to play a game?]]_

“Please don’t do this to me,” he weeps, arm stretching as far as he can, trying to touch one last time. It’s futile, of course, the bars around him are solid steel and even if he weren’t such a small, skinny child they cannot be broken by human means, “Please, please.”

_[[Two brothers enter: one stays, one leaves.]]_

And god, three pleases in less than a minute. What Andrew would have done to get that before. Not that what he’s doing is easy, but that certainly does not help.

“Andrew, please. Let me come with you. Don’t leave me here. Don’t leave me alone.”

_[[Guess which one is which.]]_

But as much of a little shit his younger brother can be, Andrew’s doing this for him.

He can’t turn around, if he turns around he’ll see Henry’s face–his ugly blotchy crying face, and his wobbling trembling mouth with it’s crooked teeth, and the spray of freckles he inherited from their mother, and–the face that he watched grow up from wrinkled lumpy baby, red and squalling, to still kind of lumpy constantly dirty. God, Andrew hates this but he loves his brother more so he doesn’t turn around.

_[[Are you a glass half-empty or a glass half-full kind of person?]]_

He puts the key to his brother’s jail cell on a hook by the door. “Don’t let him out until it’s over, I don’t want him to see.” The guard in uniform, masked and anonymous, nods just the once before resuming his statue impersonation.

The door opens, blinding sunlight turning him into nothing more than a silhouette. He thinks he hears Henry screaming, but the pounding of his heart is louder. There’s a ringing in his ears, a burning in his eyes and throat.

_[[Two brothers enter.]]_

For him, this is what it means to be an older brother. He was doomed at five years old, the moment his mother placed Henry in his arms. Has that only been fifteen years? That’s such a short time. Henry’s not even an adult yet. Andrew’s not even that much of one either. Both of them are too young for this.

His breathing has sped up, his hands are sweating and he sight still hasn’t cleared of phosphenes. He can do this. He can’t do this. God this is unfair. This is–

_[[One stays [alive], one leaves [in a body bag].]]_


	2. Word Prompt (A13): Affection

“Where are my socks?” You ask, eyes scanning your bedroom floor. It’s important because you are going out on a date, and you don’t want your date to think you are gross for not wearing socks with your sneakers. “Mega, where are my socks?”

It’s not that you only have one pair of socks. It’s just that these are your lucky socks. You prepared them especially for tonight. And considering how incredible it is you got this first date, you need all the luck you can get to make sure there will be a second.

A hissing, rattling noise comes from underneath your bed–muffled by your comforter dangling off the corner.

“Mega, I need my socks. Bring them out here.”

Truth be told, you know it’s weird to speak to Mega as if she can understand you. As intelligent as she is, Mega is still… well…

Her snake head pokes out, red and yellow scales gleaming softly. She is coiled around your lucky socks.

You crouch down next to her, arm extended because you know that it has been cold lately and your hardwood floor even colder. But instead of climbing onto you, onto what must be an attractive heat source, Mega hisses. It’s not sharp, and her mouth remains closed, so you interpret it as sulky instead of angry.

“Mega, it’s just a date, it’s not like I’m getting married.”

You imagine a world where you don’t have to explain your actions to your pet snake. You think that world is rather strange.

“And plus, this might be a one time thing. We don’t even know if he’ll like me.”

At that, the rest of Mega’s body slithers out from underneath your bed. She maintains her grip on your lucky socks, but she brushes her tail along the back of your hand soothingly.

“Thanks, Mega. And hey, maybe I won’t like him. But I think I’d rather go and definitively know than not go and always wonder. Don’t you agree?”

You’re quite satisfied with this world, the one where your possessive snake steals your socks and boosts your self-esteem and lets you rant about life philosophies.

Mega abandons her cotton-nylon prey and winds her way up your arm.  When she is loosely wrapped around your shoulders–stable enough not to fall off as you do your sock-dressing hopping dance, but loose enough not to impede your movements or breathing–she flicks her tongue out once. Twice. Thrice. Along your neck, cheek and ear. In exchange, you stroke her head in between her eyes.

When you are done tying your shoes, you check yourself out in the mirror. “Damn, I look hot. Mega, what do you think?”

You are short and slouchy and you wear hoodies and sneakers to first dates. You talk to your pet snake and you have designated lucky socks. Your room is still a mess, and the terrarium is a large part of it. But you’ve got a snake wrapped around your shoulders, scales sliding against your skin affectionately, and you’re both decked out in red and yellow. Bright and eager to take on the world.

“I think so too.”


	3. Word Prompt (I4): Idle

To be honest, it’s not a very good day to go to the park. The sky is overcast and the clouds are dark grey and heavy with rain just waiting to drench the city. There’s a sharpness to the wind that cuts through even the thickest of jackets.

The park itself is relatively lifeless, the trees are bare with the season, but the leaves are soggy instead of crisp. Instead of a pleasing crunch underfoot, stepping on them means slicking your soles and risking a fall.

Even the small flock of ducks, usually holding court by the pond at this time of day, have hidden themselves.

But you promised, so here you are.

The park is almost empty, barring yourself, of course, and the person you are here to meet.

People, apparently, as you take a glance at the pair in front of you.

“I really hoped it wouldn’t have come to this,” You say, instead of greeting them.

“Yes, well, shocking to all of us you are the least terrible option in this particular situation,” Your uncle, or some friend of one of your parents or some student of one of your grandparents, something like that, you’re not sure, replies with what you think is an unnecessary amount of extra syllables.

“Wow, all this praise might go to my head,” Your hands would twitch for a cigarette right about now, but you’ve decided to quit and anyway you don’t want to bother your uncle’s companion.

Your uncle’s companion who hasn’t said a word this entire time. You’re not insulted; apparently the kid hasn’t said a word to anyone in the past month so you’re not expecting much.

“You little shit,” Your uncle responds, but there’s no hostility in it. There’s a reason why your family sent him today out of anyone else, and it’s not because of his skill with children.

“You got any luggage?” It’s not that you’re hoping for a verbal response, it’s just that you think it’d be rude not to direct your question at the kid when it’s regarding his stuff.

“Just the backpack,” Your uncle tilts his head over at the stuffed red bag on the bench. The kid has a white-knuckled grip on one strap.

“‘Kay,” Because you can’t really think of anything else to say, “Let’s go then,” Then you start walking towards your car. The kid will follow or he won’t. You promised you’d let him stay with you, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to make him stay with you.

And anyway, he’s family. You really thought you’d gotten free of them.


	4. Word Prompt (L11): Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> loosely related to Chapters 9, 39, 40, and 92

Alice is 22 years old when she first meets the boy who will eventually save her life. Of course, she doesn’t know it at the time. Looking at him, dragging himself through the filthy puddles and trash of the alley, she’s not  impressed.

She stops, because sometimes she likes to think she is a nice person, but she makes sure to keep a hand on her pepper spray and prevents her knees from locking.

“Want help?” Because it’s clear that the boy needs it, but she’s not going to give it to someone who’ll be ungrateful.

“Ha!” The boy pants or laughs or coughs at her, “Yeah, that’d be good,” He continues his crawl, elbows and forearms pulling the rest of his prone body towards the lit street. His clothes are horrendously disgusting at this point, and she hasn’t spotted a bag or other set of possessions, which means likely that’s all he has.

“Ambulance?” Because EMTs are probably trained to handle worse things than smelly clothes.

“Well that would make things a lot easier. I don’t have my phone anymore,” Which bodes well, if this is just an injured mugging victim instead of a potentially crazed vagrant then she’s not in as much danger as she thought.

Alice calls 911, because that wasn’t a no and the sooner she can make this someone else’s responsibility the sooner she can go home already.

The dispatcher is calm and collected, and when Alice puts the phone on speaker the boy is equally composed in answering the questions on how he was injured and as much as he can remember about the incident. She feels kind of superfluous at this point, it’s rather boring considering there’s a beat up kid at her feet and Emergency on her phone.

She stays until the sirens come shrieking onto their little corner of the street. EMTs rush around the boy, checking his spine and neck before transferring him onto a stretcher. Now that he’s not belly down on the ground, Alice can get a good look at his face. Or she would be able to, were it not also covered in blood, bruises, and questionable smears.

She trots alongside the stretcher as best she can, asking “Hey, do you need me to come with you?” She’s seen TV shows, they always have someone join the victim in the ambulance. They don’t know each other, but it’s the most interesting thing to happen to her this year, even if it is duller than those shows.

The boy gives another cough laugh pant, “I don’t even know your name,”

She doesn’t know his name either, and he’s being rather uppity considering she just got him expert medical attention, but still she says, “It’s Alice. Alice Lee” It’s not a common name, but it’s a big enough city–there are probably multiple Alice Lees out there.

“Well thanks, Alice Lee, but I think I’ll be fine,” Then his face, underneath all that muck, twitches and he continues, more earnest, “Really, Alice Lee, thanks for this.”

And because they are strangers and she doesn’t really care that much and he already refused, the EMTs load the boy into the ambulance and leave her behind.

She does not discover that boy’s name until she is 28, unwillingly handcuffed to a briefcase bomb, and sporting a few facial bruises of her own.

It has been 6 years since that admittedly tepid rescue, so Alice doesn’t quite remember the boy. But apparently the boy remembers her, Alice Lee, one of eleven Alice Lees in the city. Because when the terrorists demand 500 million dollars from Suleiman Isidore the billionaire prodigy inventor of CRO-Tech Industries, it is paid immediately.

And when they renege on their side of the deal, when Alice is sure that today is the day she is going to die, that weird filthy boy she saved is the one who tells the SWAT team that one death is not acceptable. That one specific death is not acceptable. It is his voice on the megaphone that negotiates. And he’s the one who stalls long enough for snipers to shoot one two three four five terrorists and the only threat is the one attached to her wrist.

And even though he’s not the one with careful steady hands, the one with four years of bomb squad experience, removing that damned briefcase, he’s standing outside by the ambulances treating hostages for injuries and shock.

“Hey Alice Lee,” billionaire prodigy inventor of CRO-Tech Industries says to her, suave suit and nonchalant smile betrayed by the wrinkles and mussed hair of someone frenzied and worried.

But she doesn’t really remember that boy from 6 years ago, whose face she couldn’t get a clear look at, and whose name she never got anyway. She’s got an icepack up to her eye, her punishment for struggling, and the EMT is carefully treating her slightly bleeding wrist. The shock blanket they first put on her has fallen off, and she can’t even put it back one because both of her hands are currently busy.

“Hey,” Because she doesn’t know what to say and she’s going through shock and honestly she can’t be bothered.

He sticks around still, as awkward as she is, and when they decide to load her up into the ambulance (because apparently they don’t think she can accurately judge her pain levels and they’re right, she can’t, so there might be other injuries hidden around) he jumps in after them. Because he’s billionaire prodigy inventor of CRO-Tech Industries and he maybe sort of saved the day, no one questions him.

“Aren’t you going to say ‘Well thanks, Suleiman Isidore, but I think I’ll be fine?’” He prompts, three minutes into the drive. The EMTs look about as confused as she feels, but since it’s not directed at them they just keep talking to each other.

“I didn’t even know your name,”

“Well, I suppose it’s close enough.” He states, before pulling out the shiniest business card she’s ever seen and tucking it into her reusable grocery bag full of granola bars and fruit snacks.

Alice is 28 years old when the boy whose life she might have saved, and who save her life, becomes her suitor.


	5. Word Prompts (T26): Touch

Walking down the sparse hallway, she drags a fingertip along the glass floor-to-ceiling walls. There are flashes of light going off intermittently, following after her click-clacking steps.

She doesn’t need to turn to see the cameras–she knows they’re there, they’ve been there for a while. She’s not performing for them, but she knows her walk will make a good photo. The fallen idol, still in high heels and an asymmetrical dress, on her way to the end.

She doesn’t have makeup–they wouldn’t let her have any after the incident three weeks ago, in which she wrote line after line of numbers and code on the walls of her room in eyeliner and lipstick–but her birthmarks being seen is the least of her concerns now.

It’s not prison, no, they could never do something so horrific to her. It’s rehab. It’s a resort. It’s all the same.

She wonders if they let her keep her heels because of how sharp they are. Perhaps they were hoping she’d do herself in, put and end to their misery. Or maybe they want to give her a minimal fighting chance–it’s the closest to a weapon they can give her without it actually being one. Or maybe… well, maybe those Misters just can’t recognize her without her signature look.

The guards walking behind her don’t even have a hand on their weapons. There really is no point. It’s hard to tell them apart, with their matching uniforms and face masks, but she thinks the one on her left is a fan–Was a fan. Will have been a fan–of hers.

“It’s the end of the line, you can leave me here,” She says to them, when they reach the door at the end of the hallway. There’s no reason for them to have to see it in person. It’ll be all over the news soon enough.

The one on the left, good old faithful Lefty, makes an aborted movement towards her. Arm swaying back from what could have been a comforting gesture.

“One little mistake, and this is it. I didn’t even get a chance to fix it,” She’s not even really speaking to them anymore. More to herself. It’s not quite self-pity, but a wistful what if mixed with regret, "Well, I started it with these Misters. It’s up to me to end it,“

When she walks through the door, the guards do not follow her. There is still a floor to ceiling glass wall, the lights outside steady–video not photo. There’s no other door, nothing on the walls, no furniture. She can’t see anything but the bland boundaries of the room.

That doesn’t mean there’s nothing there, though.

"Alright, you Mister. I’m ready,” She closes her eyes and takes one. last. breath.


	6. Untitled (2015-01-08)

When people ask me for my story, I know already what they want to hear. The thing is, I don’t want to tell that story. I’ve told that story before, other people have repeated that story. It may be comforting and familiar to others. But to me, that just means it’s old and outdated and boring.

I want to tell a different story. I want to tell the story that I wasn’t allowed to tell. That I was too afraid to tell. That I tried and failed and regretted failing to tell.

When people ask for my story, they want to hear about superheroes. About being part of a team of vigilantes, right wrongs and saving the day. Sometimes they want to hear about the struggles, the betrayals, and the conflicts.

But they never want to hear about the love. The everyday life of bickering over toast and trading laundry duty for dish duty and waking up to find that someone painted my toes while I slept and not being sure of who.

They never want to hear about the friendships that made our team so successful. That made the struggles easier to bear, the betrayals cut all the deeper, the conflicts to burn even now. Now that I’m the last one left.

No one even thinks to ask about love. And it’s just one more thing I regret. Because no one even knows it exists to ignore it. 

I just want to tell one last story. About a boy, who was so in love with another boy who would never love him back. This idiotic, overly proud boy was too scared to say something. Too busy. Too weak.

And that boy, the other boy, who I had loved. He never loved me back because he never got the chance to.

Maybe I don’t want to tell that story. Maybe I want to tell another story. A story where that foolish boy was brave enough, made his love a priority, was willing to try. I should have tried.


	7. Untitled (2015-01-09)

You are descended from royalty; from magicians, warriors, and scholars. The blood of rulers run through your veins, leaders of people by gold and by charm and by strength. Your ancestry is rich with history and culture and power.

What have you done with it?

You are told by your father of how his father was a great man, a generous man to people and land alike. An environmentalist before that word existed. A wordsmith upon which a generation was raised. A just and generous man.

Your aunts whisper to you of their mother, your grandmother. That what she spoke would come to pass through hard work or through spells. How in she gave blessings to those who asked, and curses to those who deserved them.

What will be remembered of you?

You remember them, vaguely, the way most people only recognize a memory when it’s already been brought up. You remember a warm hand running through your hair. You remember soft scents and a soft voice.

You remember your grandfather sitting next to you, the two of you outside away from the noise and bustle, staring out as the wind danced and weaved through the trees. He talked to you, in his deep rumbling voice, but you can never remember what he said. You think it may have been life advice, unfortunately wasted on a toddler too young to heed it.

You remember your grandmother taking you out on trips, wandering through the town, in and out of stores. She would ask your opinion on things, on what to buy or not. You remember once refusing a string of gems, but picking out a figurine of a pig. She bought you sweets.

What do you do now?

It’s been decades since then. They died long ago, no more warm hand through your hair, no more sweets and adventures. You haven’t thought of them recently, and you’re not sure why you’re thinking of them now.

Except… except now you are facing the end of the world. And those things that you didn’t really learn at your grandparents’ feet. The things you should have had proper training in. Those are what can save the world. You just have to remember.


	8. Untitled (2015-01-10)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> loosely related to Chapter 46 and 54

He meets her in the early morning, a gray weak dawn, weak beams of light barely breaking through the clouds. He is tired and achey and sore. He is covered in dirt and there’s pieces of leaves in his hair and all over his jacket.

He had slept in a bush last night, because it was safer that sleeping in a tree–where his restless movements could cause an unfortunate fall–and less risky than sleeping out in the open, where someone could stumble upon him. And potentially kill him.

He’s only fifteen, he’s too young to die.

But when he meets her, he can only feel relief. Because she doesn’t have a partner yet either. Which means she won’t automatically kill him.

And, obviously, she hadn’t because he could recall their first meeting and such an act excludes his death. Well… if he were a ghost…

“Focus, focus.” He murmurs to himself, treading clumsily in her wake. She’s the one with a better sense at navigating the forest–her powers pretty much ensure that–so her footsteps are steady and sure.

“We need to get to the edges soon, it’s been four days–people have already gotten accustomed to the situation, and they’ll begin attacking each other.”

The way this… situation came about is that those with magical potential are granted a wish. Any wish. And in exchange they are entered into a tournament of sorts. You can only work in pairs–not alone and not in larger teams. You have to survive.

And that’s it.

There will be teams who kill others off to increase their odds. But he knows that ultimately, it’s useless. It doesn’t matter who lives or who dies. The moderators have already chosen their winners.

It’s not the players.


	9. Word Prompt (R40): Run(ning) Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> loosely related to Chapters 4, 39, 40, and 92

I’m cold and tired and, honestly, still feeling better about myself than I have for a long while. I had forgotten what it was like to be so… free. To be uncomfortable because of a terrible decision I made, as opposed to something that just happens around me.

I like this: walking down the street with soggy shoes and a too thin sweater. Fingers curling and uncurling in an attempt to stave off numbness, eyelids blinking frequently in a parody of sleep. I like not having to avert my eyes from my father’s gaze, not having to hold still as my mother inspects my facial features like a show dog. I like that the world around me, as dangerous as it may be, is loud and bright and alive.

Most of the shops are closed, their doors locked and windows dark. Some of them even have trashcans out front for early morning pick up, meaning I have to weave around and through terrible smells. But there are taxis in the road, and other pedestrians on the sidewalks. And there’s a cat.

A really fat cat. Too fat and clean to be a stray–and plus, it’s got a collar on.

“Oh, here kitty,” I croon, clicking my tongue a few times and crouching down to hold my hand out. The cat considers me for a moment, before rubbing its face into my offered hand. Then it jumps into my lap–forcing me to hold it or risk it falling to the ground as I stand.

This is no hardship. Cats, when affectionate, are wonderful–and this one is excellent to hug. It does not hurt that the cat is so warm.

“Where did you come from? Let me see your collar,” The tag says its name, her name, is Dandelion. “Queen Dandelion,” I say, pleased at the sound of that, “Let’s return you to your kingdom.”

The address on her tag isn’t too far. It’s on the same street as the one I’ve been walking for the past hour, but the number indicates its further down. When I get there, I can only stand dumbly outside, hesitating, and stroking Dandelion’s fur in a fit of nervous fidgeting. She purrs in response, the vibrations calming against my chest. 

I know this place. 

I mean, I’ve never been inside. But I know of it.

This is the Cat’s Meow. It's… well. Something of a scandal. It’s a bar, strip club, and alleged (but not proven) brothel.

Of course, it doesn’t exactly look it from the outside, all neat wooden panelling and green awnings. It looks like a generic restaurant. It’s pretty much the only thing open right now. It’s very cold outside.

“Queen Dandelion how could you do this to me?” I murmur.

Above the main club are apartments, which would explain the brothel allegations. One of the lights are on, oh god one of the windows are opening.

“Hello!” A boy with extremely fluffy looking hair yells down at me cheerfully, he’s shirtless but wearing bright orange suspenders and a black tie. “You found Dandelion! I’ll be right down,” Then he closes the window before I can object.

I consider just dropping Dandelion and running, but I’m reluctant to put her down. She’s so warm and she’s begun grooming my hairline which is strangely soothing.

The door to Cat’s Meow opens, conversation and low sultry music making it’s way into the street. Thankfully the boy from the window is wearing pants. Unfortunately, the pants are striped green and purple.

“Hey there,” He greets, holding the door open by a red sneaker adorned foot. “Welcome to the Cat’s Meow. Thanks for bringing Dandelion back! She disappeared this morning, but we had to stop searching after a few hours. We were hoping she’d make her way back to us.”

Said cat meows back, as if trying to engage in the conversation. I guess I should do the same.

“I…” The thing is, I think I recognize this boy. But I’m not sure how exactly, and I don’t want to embarrass the both of us by not remembering how or assuming and it not being true. 

“Would you like to come in? It’s pretty cold out, I can get you a drink as thanks. Dandelion is our mascot, so I’m sure the others would like to thank you as well,” He doesn’t make any movement towards me, which I’m thankful for. No pressure, even if he must be even colder than I am, with the whole lack of a shirt thing.

Dandelion doesn’t make any move to escape my hold, but she keeps looking at me then the club almost expectingly.

Outside in the cold or inside the warm but scandalous bar/strip joint/(alleged) brothel… My parents definitely would not approve of this place.

I walk in.


	10. Adventures of Jack and Ness ficlet (2015-01-13)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Adventures of Jack and Ness are unrelated stories revolving around best friends in vastly different worlds and situations.

“Why does this always happen to us?” I shriek, running around the corner of the decrepit hallway, Ness on my tail.

“Shut up shut up shut up. Keep running,” She’s physically fitter than me, hardly panting at all, but her legs are much shorter so she’s behind me. And I think she thinks she’s more equipped to fight off our pursuers.

She’s right, of course, but not for the previously stated reason.

“Silver doorknob!” We’ve run past upwards of two dozen doors already, but the one ahead is special. That one is useful.

“Okay, ready?”

This is not the first time we’ve done this–instead of heading directly towards the room with the silver doorknob, I get ready at the door across from it. The doors in this building swing outwards, and are surprisingly sturdy considering their age.

Ness runs past me for a few feet, and now the ghosts chasing us are near enough for me to see them. One of them breaks off from the group to head towards me, but Ness has already done a quick pivot and practically flies into flock, arms crossed over to protect her face. Suitably bewildered, all of the ghosts stop their single minded chase.

I hook one arm around her waist, the other on the door knob of the room across our haven. The hinges and centrifugal force swings us towards the wall, but instead of slamming into it, we kick off into it and through the open doorway made of rowan wood.

I can tell, it has that tingly feeling of warm raindrops. Ness slams the door shut, silver doorknob clicking locked with a solemn finality. The old wards flare briefly with activation, before settling into a low hum of energy.

The two of us slide our way to sit on the floor, shoulders and legs lined up. We’re both breathing hard, and my muscles will definitely complain tomorrow, but at least we’re safe.

“I need to do more cardio if this keeps up,” I wheeze, rubbing my own ribs as if to help my lungs with oxygen intake.

“Ugh, I hope not. Just once, I would like a normal case, a perfectly normal one…” Ness begins, and I know where this is going, because we always say this during every case we do get. 

“A missing will and arguments over inheritance,” I start, because actually that one sounds both interesting and mundane enough to be appealing.

“A long lost relative,”

“Stolen heirloom,”

“Adultery and infidelity,” Ness sighs out, before giggling. Almost all PIs get adultery cases, suspicious husbands and wives wanting someone to stalk their spouse, and they find it so boring. We on the other hand…

“We had one once, remember?”

“Well it started as one–”

“Until it turned out to be demon possession!” We both finish, matching crossed hand gestures just in case.

“Okay, okay, that’s enough of that,” Ness says, stretching up and standing. “Let’s get out of here, so we can tell our client that it wasn’t his ex-boyfriend that broke his statue,”

“It was the angry ghosts of his landlady’s last extermination session.”


	11. Untitled (2015-01-14)

“You need to come home, now. This isn’t you. You’re sick. Let us help you,” He says to her, hands open in front of him– empty and nonthreatening.

Or preparing to ward away something.

“Don’t talk to me like that. Don’t tell me what to do. Don’t tell me what I am or am not,” She reprimands him, but she’s not really angry. She’s disappointed. Because he still doesn’t see. He still doesn’t believe her.

“I’m not, I–okay. Okay, sorry,” Electricity sparks along the wires running along the ground, along the wall. He flinches, but doesn’t leave.

The warehouse isn’t exactly welcoming, it’s big but shadowed on both sides by building much taller. The windows along the top of the walls hardly let in any sunlight, and it’s all grey and murky like the cement. There’s a bathroom–which she’s retrofitted to include a a shower–and a small cubicle which may have once been the floor managers office, back when this was still a car factory. That’s where her futon and clothes are, heaped into a small mountain of cloth and stuffing.

The rest of the warehouse is full of her things. Or, well, not  ** _her_** things.  ** _Their_** things.

On an old conveyer belt, neatly laid out, is Poppy’s weapons. Her knives and wires and caltrops and needles. She has a bow and a quiver full of arrows, no guns. Poppy prefers things to be low-tech. Quieter, sneakier.

David has a desk, smooth sturdy dark wood, but his forging equipment on top his new and shining. A few almost-passports still in the works are lined up next to each other, a row of fake identities waiting to be brought to life.

Tess has crates, terribly unorganized, but the things in there are used rarely. They’re more like mementos, little knick-knacks. A rabbit stuffed toy, a woven straw hat, an Easy-Bake oven, a fake plastic lightsaber.

Patrick’s area is the second largest of the warehouse, technically, but that’s because he shares it with Soleo. Or he says he shares it with Soleo, the only person to see Soleo beside Patrick is Kay and… well, her sanity’s currently being called into question.

She tells him this, gesturing to the different areas. He watches with eyes that don’t understand, that don’t believe.

But she doesn’t care, because all of this warehouse is hers. She has her own machines set up: she has her mythril loom, she has her golem robots in each corner and two at the entrances, she has her suit and three different variations for different situations, she has her scanning simulator to help her design what she wants, she has her 3-D printer to turn those designs into reality, she has her computer. Her computer is a work of art.

It’s giant and it looks like what the very first computer must have decades ago, giant towers and wires running every which way. But this computer is to them what dolphins are to single-celled organisms.

And Theo wants her to leave it?

“Please, Kay. Won’t you come with me? Everyone will be glad to see you. To see that you’re still alive. Don’t you miss everyone? We missed you,” He tries to convince her. But she grew up with him, she’s basically immune.

“You didn’t miss me, you mourned me.” She was both flattered and heartbroken to see her friends and what little remained of her family in the aftermath of her ‘death’ because they honestly mourned her.

But then she remembers the way Alexander sold the rights to her inventions to the highest bidders. Remembers that all of her hard work is now in the hands of some scumbag with more money than morals.

“I wouldn’t have if I knew you were just here hiding! I hated it!” Theo yells back, body language all aggressive and looming, but he catches himself, eyes wide. He didn’t touch her, but he shoves his hands into his pockets anyway. Just in case.

“Go home, Theo. Tell Auntie that you love her. Tell Evan to stop going to the brawls–he’s going to lose soon, and there’s only so many times Poppy will throw her fight to pull him out of trouble.” Both of her cousins are foolhardy idiots, but at least Theo has some semblance of a survival instinct.

“Poppy–Kay. Kay, I’m here because Evan said he was saved by someone that looked like you. Kay. You saved Evan. Not… not Poppy.” He looks like he’s going to be sick. The trash can is metal, so she can send it his way without moving from her seat.

He is ten feet away from her chair.

When it comes to a stop three inches from his left foot, he takes one small step away.

He looks at her, then at the trashcan, then back at her. He looks even sicker, but he’s determined and he steels himself.

“Poppy doesn’t exist. None of them exist. It’s just you.”

He still doesn’t understand.


	12. Word Prompts (H26): Hope

(Someone is humming)

They are trying to find their way out. It’s been almost a full day, if the sky outside these windows can be trusted

(Can they be trusted? This whole castle is untrustworthy)

And while they’ve managed to find each other, they haven’t found the rest of their group.

(It’s always been them, though. The others are recent, the others don’t appreciate, the others don’t really matter)

“We’ve passed this tapestry already,” He says to her, because there’s no one else to say it too.

“Thrice,” She responds, because she is more paranoid and thus more observant.

(She is also more prone to secrets, even though it’s his secrets that may cost them their lives)

“I think…” He hesitates, because he already doesn’t like what he’s about to say, but it needs to be said anyway, “I think we need to give up.”

“No! Are you–”

“I think we need to ask for help,”

(Even if it would cost them)

“But what about the curse? What about your magic?” She finally, finally sheathes her sword. It’s been useless the entire day, she hates that all of her training and preparation means nothing here.

“We found each other, which means we only need to use one gift to get the both of us out. So we still have one left. We can use it to break the curse,”

“But… your magic,” She can only repeat sadly, because he’s been wanting to learn for a long time. He’s been needing to learn for too long.

(It’s dangerous, to be a magician in this kingdom)

“Maybe… maybe I’ll get taught regardless. I can trade something for lessons later. And I want to break your curse more. It’s dangerous.”

(It’s dangerous, to be a Desmond and fall in love. Especially with a Stowe)

They set out on this quest for two things–to break her family’s curse and to keep him safe from the anti-magic high society. The latter does not necessarily need a magical wish to grant, just distance, which they’ve already achieved.

She doesn’t even know if she will fall in love with Henrietta Stowe. She’s never even met her before. But even if she doesn’t, she might have kids or nieces and nephews or grandkids or maybe even further away. Some Desmond will fall in love with their Stowe–and they will die.

She remembers her uncle Ashton–he was kind and funny and smart. Then he fell in love with Evelyn Stowe and then he was just dead.

He can see on her face that she’s agreeing, because he smiles a victorious and sad smile, “I’ll miss you,” He says, because he knows he can’t return with her–not when the royalty and nobility have tightened their laws of magicians. Not when he can’t control his powers.

“I wish…”


	13. Untitled (2015-01-16)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally posted as a recording

When I looked into the mirror this morning I saw… myself.

… yeah. That’s usually what happens.

No! I mean, yeah, but I…

Are you okay?

I saw myself doing terrible things. Like… I was running in a forest, I was chasing someone and they were bleeding and scared… of me. They were scared of me.

How would you even–

And I was in a room with three other people. And one of them was you–

Cool.

No, because we were torturing someone.

Not cool.

Yeah. We were, well. You held his head underwater a couple of times. And then we chained him up and electrocuted him.

How long was this going on for?

Like two hours?

No I mean how long were you looking in the mirror for?

Only a few seconds.

And you saw… hours of this mirror world in which we’re evil?

I don’t know, it doesn’t make sense to me either.

Why are you even telling me this?

Because I got scared and I needed to share it with someone.

You needed to share your fear?

Yes, no. Never mind.

You need to focus okay?

I know.

There are three targets today. And this has to be their last day.

I know.

No dithering, no torturing. Just a straight, clean shot through the head. Jeez, we’re assassins, not brutes. No matter what that mirror world shows you.


	14. Untitled (2015-01-17)

Let’s talk about us.

Let’s talk about our relationship and our future.

Let’s talk about what we’re going to do with the twelve dogs, four cats, two falcons, and one pig that we collectively own.

Let’s talk about your crappy excuse for a car and my, admittedly, hideous old couch.

Let’s talk about how my mother still dislikes you and your brothers keep borrowing money and never paying us back.

Let’s talk about how much I love you, how much I want the rest of the world to know, how much I want us to be official in the eyes of our oppressive, bigoted government.

Let’s talk about us.

-

We met because we were both in line to buy tickets for some concert I don’t even remember (that’s a lie, that concert was the winter holidays concert of The ABZs, my favorite song is their power ballad, but I do enjoy your favorite song too).

Our first date was dinner and a movie–the former which was excellent, the latter which was terrible, but that was okay because we had fun mocking it and pissing off the teenagers in the row in front of us.

I broke your hairdryer during our first fight–not because I was throwing it, or because I purposefully wanted to destroy your things, but because I tripped over it when I was trying to run after you to apologize.

For my birthday, you tried to surprise me with zip-lining. I appreciate the effort, it’s not your fault that’s how I discovered my debilitating fear of heights. Or my tendency to get violent when scared (sorry Steve of Aerial Adventures).

For your birthday, I brought you to paintball. We accidentally got mixed in with a business retreat and ended up winning their free cafeteria desserts. We had to run away when they found out we didn’t actually work with them.

Last week, you made me poptarts even though I drank the last of the orange juice the day before. Yesterday I walked the dogs (yes, all twelve of them) even though Fritz still doesn’t like me and barfed on my shoes.

So, let’s not talk about the past. Because we loved each other, and that’s not in question. Let’s talk about us as we are now. Us as we might be and may be and will be.

Let’s talk.


	15. Word Prompts (S35): Sharp

It’s the ticking that really bugs him. The constant, steady ticking of the hallway clock.

He doesn’t mind waiting for hours or filling out redundant paperwork or even the way the nurses recognize him on sight and shoot him sympathetic smiles. But that damned ticking hallway clock…

To be honest, it’s probably not even audible. He sits on the opposite side of the waiting room from it, and there are always other people with their own chattering drama going on. He doesn’t actually hear it, but he sees it. And that’s enough to make him imagine the ticking. 

Maybe it’s not the ticking of the hallway clock. Maybe the hallway clock doesn’t even tick. Maybe it’s the sound of footsteps crunching leaves, splashing through puddles, kicking through sand and snow. Maybe it’s the sound of squealing laughter, hitching sobs, tearing growls. The steady beep of a heart monitor. 

Tick. Tock. Tricks and Clocks.

“He’s ready to see you now,” Nurse Mendez gestures to him, and he finally gets up from the chair. Finally looks away from the clock. But he can still hear it.

“Thank you,” He murmurs, but his mind is already beyond manners, he doesn’t hear the response. Just the constant ticking.

Room 26 isn’t really a private room, but there is no one else in the second bed today. So it is just the two of them. He sits down in the chair next to the occupied bed. That’s all he ever does here. Sit and wait.

Sometimes he can get a conversation, if he’s patient and kind and lucky. Sometimes, even when he is, he only gets silence. He likes to err on the side of caution, he’d prefer to be disappointed than to not even try.

“Today was kind of strange,” He offers, because he’d rather his own voice than the beeping/ticking/silence, “I kept getting irritated, and while I was living it I thought it was terrible. But I achieved everything I set out to do, even if it took me longer than I wanted. So I realize now that today was actually a pretty good day,”

Today he gets a glance in his direction, and the upturned open palm waiting for his hand. He’s careful not to grab too tightly, careful not to stare at the bandages wrapped around his boyfriend’s wrists.

“Yeah, today was pretty good,”


	16. Word Prompts (S91): Stitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> loosely related to Chapter 77 and Ode to 11010201

Grandmother inspects our spellwork every Saturday when Papa drops us off for our weekly lessons. She says she trusts us not to do any major damage during the week, that her grandchildren will maintain the family name. But we also know that she sews surveillance spells into our scarves and gloves, threads it into our training bracelets. We pretend not to notice.

This week, our assignment was to create a luck charm for a non-magical person. Daphne made a broach for Mama, it has health and fortune runes crafted in semi-precious stones. If Grandmother approves, then Daphne’s going to give it to her as a gift for her birthday.

Iris just recently broke up with her boyfriend, they haven’t yet returned each others’ things, though it’s bound to happen soon enough. I don’t think Grandmother will strictly approve of Iris’ project, but it’s a pretty good showcase of magical skill. Even if it’s petty to make an ex-boyfriend’s favorite jacket the source of romantic catastrophes. Also, inexplicable itching.

Zoe and I aren’t allowed to work on our assignments together, even though our resonating magic means the enchantments would have been that much stronger. We honestly didn’t mean for the color change spell on Grandmother’s cat to be permanent, but Striker seems to be content with life as a purple cat.

But I digress, Zoe’s trying to do a multi-layered luck quilt. It’s somehow both ambitious and lazy–because she wants it to imbue the owner with bad academic luck while simultaneously giving good financial luck, and conflicting lucks is pretty difficult, but she has to make a quilt for one of her art classes anyway. I think she plans to give it to one of her classmates who owes her money.

As for me? Well…

“Arke, darling, what are those?” Grandmother asks, eyes narrowed and suspicious but voice still light and sweet. I’m pretty sure I’m Grandmother’s favorite, but I’m also sure she often despairs or regrets this.

“Cupcakes, I wanted to see if I could make edible luck charms.” The batch I brought today for grading was my fifth. The third successful one. Well… the first two might have been successful if the enchantment I had been going for was uncomfortable bad digestive luck. It was not.

“And could you?” My sisters laugh with varying degrees of bitterness, depending on which batch I asked them to test for me.

“Well, technically they are edible and they do bring luck to the eater,” I hedge, staring at the brightly frosted tops of my cupcakes.

“But…?” Grandmother prompts, impatient for me to get to the point.

“They taste awful.”


	17. Adventures of Jack and Ness ficlet (2015-01-24)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Adventures of Jack and Ness are unrelated stories revolving around best friends in vastly different worlds and situations.
> 
> This one is in a Transformer-esque world.

She drives a powder blue Volkswagen Beetle around town, convertible rooftop folded when the weather permits. She is never seen without her phone which, despite her tendency to be ahead of the trend, has a sliding screen and a keyboard instead of the more common flat touch screens. She  has a pilot’s license, and is known around school for taking people on the coolest second dates in her family’s floatplane.

He rides a bright red Vespa everywhere, even when walking would be more convenient. The tiny netbook he uses for school fits in the altered front pockets of the hoodies he wears at all hours of the day, everyday. After school he helps out with his parents’ food-truck, he never does any of the cooking thankfully, but culinary skills aren’t necessary to dispense ice cream.

These facts are well known. They don’t seem relevant to each other, or even remarkable at all. She’s never outrightly snubbed him, but it’s clear that they run in entirely different cliques. No one at school can recall them ever speaking to each other.

But just because it can’t be remembered, doesn’t mean it’s never happened.

They met at night. Because all covert meetings ought to happen at night. But really, it was because he wasn’t free to meet until after the dinner shift, when the food truck was the busiest. And also it was only by the cover of darkness that all eight of them could properly meet up.

/How were the customers today?/ Dragonfly asked, sitting on the dock part of her amphibious garage. Her green wings were folded tight against her back to create room for the others.

/Not too terrible, though there was this one pile of scraps that nearly vandalized my paint job/ Pot groused, curled up awkwardly but not uncomfortably. Being the largest of the group, she was granted the most space out of necessity but didn’t want to be a total hog.

“You poor dear,” Ness crooned, rubbing a hand along the bright mural on Pot’s leg panels. Tick, wrapped around Ness in his headset mode, helpfully translated the other’s series of whistles and clicks into something humans could understand.

Knife, shaped more like a helmet, did the same for Jack. “Well, Rabbit nearly blew his cover in order to defend her honor. Also, he stole the jerk’s wallet,”

Machinery couldn’t blush, but Rabbit’s casing almost seemed to turn an even brighter red.

/Getting identification to press charges?/ Parasite said dryly. He was the only one to stay in his day-time form. Partially because he had no reason to switch into his other more humanoid shape, nor any other forms to change into. The other reason was that it was easier for the humans to join the meeting if they could sit on upholstered car seats. With the roof down, it really wasn’t any different from them sitting on one of the others’ laps or shoulder, just more comfortable.

/He didn’t get caught/ Knife defended, having been as present during the event as the rest of Jack’s troika due to having been in his sweater pocket.

“And that’s all that matters,” Jack agreed.

“We should all be more careful, though. We don’t exactly want to advertise to the world about the existence of living robots,” Ness cautioned. It may have been selfish, but she wasn’t keen on sharing her Transformers with anyone except Jack.


	18. Untitled (2015-01-26)

Jack knows a secret.

[That’s a vague statement. What does that even mean?]

Jack knows many secrets, some of them are his and some of them aren’t. But there is one secret in particular, one that is not his, but one that he knows, that is relevant to what I am about to tell you.

[Don’t sass me.]

You may have heard about selkies, yes? Or some other mythological being similar. They tend to be women, they fall in love, they marry, they have a family, and all throughout their husbands only have to do one thing. Just one thing. And what do they not do?

[They don’t do the thing.]

They don’t do the thing. Well, in the selkies’ case, it was actually a good thing, as her husband had been holding her seal pelt hostage and she couldn’t return to the ocean without it. For the rest it’s usually–don’t tell this secret, don’t look in this box.

[What’s the point?]

The point is, what happens to those children?

[Oh.]

Yes. So Jack knows a secret, and the secret is this. His mother is a selkie.

[Wouldn’t that make it his secret too?]

Not particularly. He doesn’t have any special abilities–he’s not any better at swimming, he can’t talk to animals, he doesn’t prefer seafood to other food. He’s as average a person can get.

[Except for his selkie mother.]

Yes. Except for that. And to be honest, it’s not like it comes up very often throughout his life. Other kids have had to deal with worse than having a single parent, why his mother left doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things.

[Now that’s depressing. What’s the point of this?]

Jack knows a secret, he’s known it his entire life. But it’s not until he’s 34 that it becomes relevant.


	19. Untitled (2015-01-27)

They are four the first time someone mentions how odd they are. With her, it is visible right off the bat: already her hair is streaked with gray and there is a large port-wine birthmark splashed across her face and arms. Her eyes are different colors, the left an eery colorless gray, the right an almost disappointingly mundane brown. But her brother appears normal–his hair is as average a brown as can be, his eyes equally so, there are no distinguishing marks painted across his skin. But they are four, and he has yet to say a word.

It’s nothing wrong physically–they’ve tested his hearing and all of the parts of the body that enables speech are in working order. He has cried out in pain and fear and sorrow, has laughed audibly in joy. But he has never spoken. His parents are worried. Other are concerned. His sister does not care, because she has grown up with this. Her brother has never spoken before and so she has no expectations for him to do so. She understands him well enough regardless.

They are four and a half when someone mentions how odd they are, not out of worry and concern, but out of fear and aggression and hostility. It is also the first time they get in trouble for fighting, though she’ll always say she was defending him from bullies and the teachers just walked in at the wrong moment. It certainly won’t be the last time such a thing happens, though both decrease in frequency as she improves her subtlety.

They live their lives this way, odd and content with themselves but not with the world at large. But there is one moment that will always stand out as the point when it could’ve been different.

When they are seventeen and one quarter, they begin their final year in high school. They struggled through the first three years and have built reputations around them like walls. Mostly as freaks.

She has grown into her silver hair and mismatching eyes and mottled skin. She looks exotic, one of a kind, which always appeals to the shallow who see people only as conquests. But just as she has grown into her odd looks, she has grown into the righteous anger.

And while he is still aesthetically average, so nondescript that sometimes even relatives don’t recognize him, he is undeniably talented in whatever he sets out to do. He can play sports as well as the athletes, he can ace exams without much trouble, he can flit from club to club and bring them to victory. But he still never talks. And that unnerves most people.

The moment is this: there existed such a person who saw her not only with her unique appearance but also with her headstrong attitude and felt desire. This same person saw him with his quiet, constant, effortless success and felt envy. A self-contented desire, which this person acknowledged and treasured but felt no need to act upon; and a nonviolent envy, which pushed this person to compete against he who didn’t really understand competition.

It so happened that when they were seventeen and a quarter, there had been a moment when this person could have been inserted into their lives with such a lack of conflict that in this person they would have found a friend to last all three of their lives. The missed opportunity was so inconsequential seeming that perhaps none of them remember it; what a sad missed turn of fate.


	20. Untitled (2015-01-28)

My father was a scientist. And that showed in how he raised me. I was not so much his daughter, as I was his ultimate experiment. Anything I did, anything I achieved or failed to achieve was something that could be analyzed. Something to be broken down and examined and tweaked.

My father was also a bitter, vengeful man. It permeated its way into how he raised me. I may have been his daughter, but I was also a potential weapon. My schedule and nutrition and education revolved around improving me, making me stronger-faster-more.

Either way, I was not my own person.

-

He remembers when he was small, much younger than now, that they used to live in a house. It was warm and bright and had walls painted a cheery yellow. There were only two bedrooms, but that was enough, their family being just three. It was a small house, but it was theirs. He remembers it with fondness.

Now, they live in one of the apartments offered to Kline Inc’s employees. It’s still only two bedrooms, but it seems much larger with only the two of them. And with how frequently his mom is working. She does her best, he knows, single motherhood is difficult particularly with how unexpected it was–his dad would have been the homemaker, had he lived.

But he’s gotten used to it. There’s a lot of fun a boy can have in the skyscraper of Kline Inc, especially a boy genius and son of the head of R&D. He does his best not to get in anyone’s way, only talks to those who are free to do so. It’s a different kind of home, but still good.


	21. Untitled (2015-01-29)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prequel to Chapter 25

“Oh, he’s definitely going to be a warrior–look at him! He’s built like a tank: he takes a hit, keeps going; get’s knocked down then gets back up. And plus, he eats some kind of bear. That definitely is a sign of a warrior.”

“No way. That little charmer? Please. Where do you think he gets all that food from? He’s been tricking at least three other people out of their lunches. And do you know how much trouble he can get into? You look away and suddenly he’s making quick work of the child’s pen. A rogue, for sure.”

“Mage,” Her siblings look at her oddly for that announcement, breaking into their argument. The three of them are at their uncle’s house, keeping an eye on their little cousin. Her statement was odd for two reasons: one, that she bothered to say anything at all. Two, that she said that of all things.

“A mage?” Her sister hisses, eyes scanning around as if the governor will pop out of their uncle’s kitchen cupboards and hang them all for treason. Her hand has gone to the pommel of her sword, so perhaps that really is what she thinks.

Her brother, though less paranoid, is no less vehement in his reaction, “Mages are dangerous and unstable, we wouldn’t wish such a terrible fate on our dear baby cousin. And anyway, there hasn’t been a mage in the family in centuries,” One of his daggers tap tap tap warningly against the table.

That’s because we disown any family member that shows signs of magic. Sometimes she thinks her siblings are disappointed that she didn’t show any such signs. As she brushes a thumb over the wood of her bow, she thinks sometimes she’s disappointed that didn’t happen either.

But their young cousin–he’s got a lot of potential, that’s what happens when you’re born into this family. The problem isn’t not being good enough, it’s those who are too… skilled, that must be removed.

It is a terrible fate, to be a mage in their family. And the laws have made it a terrible thing to be a mage in this kingdom. But being a mage isn’t inherently terrible–to have magic within you and to feel it everywhere. It must be a wondrous thing.

Maybe their cousin will think that way too. Regardless of if he becomes a warrior or a rogue or a mage. Or maybe he will continue her siblings earnest fear and hostility, as the kingdom squeezes the life out of itself.

This is the last time she’ll see him–she’s taking a voyage to the western continent, and really this family reunion is meant to be her farewell party. But perhaps, before she goes, she will tell him a secret and one day they’ll meet again.


	22. Word Prompts (J*): Jacket

It’s a simple enough thing, just walk in and sit at the corner table. At first, you assume you are alone, you assume the table is all yours. But blink–once, twice, thrice–and in the seat in front of you appears a… being.

This being is sitting, so you do not know if they are tall or short. The light is dim in the corner table, so you do not know if they are handsome or beautiful or dashing or hideous. The room is loud, so you do not know if what you hear is your beating heartbeat or their tap tap tapping feet. You do not want to check under the table to see if they even have feet.

But you are not here for the being. You are not here to learn about the being. You do not care about the being. You are here because of the being, and you certainly care about what the being can do for you.

You, with your stained jacket and messy hair and scuffed shoes and trousers torn at the knee. What business do you have with a being so great and powerful, so horrific and ephemeral, that you come here? How desperate must you be, to come here and plead to a being unmerciful and apathetic to your plight? What have you to offer?

I have my torn and stained and scuffed clothing. I have my skills, limited in comparison as they are. I have my memories. I have my relationships. I have my hopes and dreams. I have my potential. I have my desperation-passion-hunger. I have myself.

The being–which you cannot see but can perceive, cannot hear but can understand–the being says yes.


	23. Untitled (2015-01-31)

It’s always the little things that trip me up. My friends say I do pretty well, all things considered, but I can always tell when I’m a little… off.

For example: stairs. To begin with, my legs aren’t of the best quality so the knee-bending is difficult. But if I’m not actively paying attention I always seem to be walking on the wrong side. I end up in people’s way when they’re trying to go down and I’m trying to go up.

Or at restaurants. It seemed odd to me that people don’t try to get to know their waiters a little better. My friends say that being a civil and even polite customer already puts me above the average consumer. But I want to know more about them. Which dish do they like best? What is their opinion on nut allergies versus lactose intolerance? Do they happen to carry around a flask of poison?

Don’t even get me started on pronouns. How do I tell what gender people are? Who am I to just assume and randomly designate genders? Do I use body shape? Or clothing styles? Or hair length? Even names don’t help much–what kind of Alex or Sam or Dan/Danny/Dani are you?

My friends say my most obvious trouble are handshakes. But I don’t really see what I’m doing wrong–most people seem to be happy after handshakes with me.

Oh.

Oh, apparently I’m not supposed to put an object in their hand. I’m supposed to put my hand in their hand.

That seems so unsanitary.

Maybe I’ll do the long-distance “wave” variation. As long as hands are in motion, surely that constitutes as a “hand shake.”

It’s hard, trying to be human. I mean, being human. Which I am. It’s difficult to be a human.


	24. Untitled (2015-02-02)

Today is the kind of day in which you feel your age. The muscles of your back are sore and your spine feels too rigid. There’s a pressure in your knees, like swollen overripe peaches about to burst. Your wrists do not creak so much as they shriek their resistance.

Your gums ache with the memory of teeth, real teeth, which you could tear and cut and grind. Biting and chewing was once so easy for you, such a pleasure you once took for granted and now miss so keenly when you prepare your breakfast.

Your throat convulses and you try not to choke on all the pills you are forced to swallow down. It seems like everyday they multiply, you imagine sometimes as you struggle to sleep, that you can hear them rattling in their bottles.

The spots and scars that decorate your thin fragile skin, create a more interesting landscape than your bland tiny home. There is the lake of your birthmark, one which your mother had always said was an angel’s kiss but which the kids on the playground mocked you for. It’s how you got the mountain range of scar tissue on your right arm, they had to change the fence all around the school.

The luxurious locks of hair which made you the envy of your siblings are bleached and thinned and so wispy you can’t help but think of the cigarettes you used to sneak out of your teacher’s desk. How the smoke dissipated in swirling clouds out the bathroom window. You wear glasses now, so thick that you could use it to start a fire like you learned from your cousin during family camping trips.

Some of them are dead, but some of them are alive. You wonder how they are. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen any of them. You know Cassidy Jones regret making fun of you as soon as you kicked him, but did he ever regret it for the right reasons? Did he ever consider that maybe the two of you might have been friends, had it not been for that?

You think about your siblings. Of the ones you’ve kept in contact with as best as your arthritic fingers and deteriorated hearing can handle. Of the ones you can’t anymore. You think of your cousin, who had died decades ago in a literal blaze of glory, rescuing idiots from fires with determination in her heart. You don’t have much of that anymore. Vitality is not just in the body, and it’s a substance that dwindles. It has been a long life–you have done much with it, and it has left it’s mark on you.


	25. Untitled (2015-02-04)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sequel to Chapter 21

There’s a river that flows around the town, murky and sludgy and brown. It’s as much a prison as it is a protection, for the town was once a noble’s fortress and private holdings and the polluted water had once been a moat.

But it’s still a river, and while they cannot drink from it, or safely eat anything that possibly lives in it, it is still a body of water. A body of water which they can use to transport goods around the town. A body of water which the townspeople can still enjoy with boat racing. A body of water which prevents the annual forest fires of the region from reaching their town. A body of water which wards off evil creatures, no matter how impure that water may itself be.

Sometimes, when he knows no one is around, he will try to commune with the river. It has been many decades since magic has been outlawed in their kingdom, but every so often a magician will appear and eventually be caught and executed. It is not a good thing to be a magician in this kingdom.

But regardless, he still tries. He can feel an energy buzzing beneath his skin, his cousins say that it’s just excitement; his battle prowess or his roguish charm, depending on which cousin he speaks to. But he doesn’t think that’s the case. He thinks it’s more. And he wants it to be more.

But he knows what happens to those in the family who want more than what they can have. They are disowned, forgotten, erased from the family as best as can be. He doesn’t remember her that well, his cousin that left when he was just a toddler.

He remembers that last day she was in town, the family had gathered at his fathers house. It was… a farewell party would be a too kind euphemism. It was more of a good riddance party. It’s not like she had been particularly kind, she had kept a distance from everyone in the family, especially those younger than her; but she had been different. Of course she had been, that’s why she had left for the western continent. But… she had good eyes–keen, sharp, useful for an archer–eyes that saw more than what appeared.

His cousins that remain, her siblings that were so eager to see her go, they whisper the same thing about him concernedly. They still fawn over him, banter about which class he will join, whose apprentice he will be. But they watch him, and they worry.

Perhaps they have nothing to worry about: no matter what he tries, the river stays a filthy flow of sludge. It might be too polluted to be a proper natural element, or it might just be that he simply doesn’t have magic. But he can still feel the energy writhing within him, and he wonders, and maybe that is enough.


	26. Untitled (2015-02-06)

There’s a smear of red _something_ streaked across his right cheek and she can’t help but stare at it. She’s barely listening to him because she’s focusing so much on that damn smear. Is it ketchup? Is it paint? Is it blood? Oh, god is he a killer artist who eats messily? Has he been one the entire time she’s known him?

“… and so I told the Abominable Snowman, no problem you can borrow my hover car any time you want. Just don’t scratch it.” He finishes, and when her line of sight finally drags its way up his face to meet his she sees that he’s terribly amused by her inattention.

“Sorry,” she grins, and even though her mind protests, her body automatically tucks her left hand into her left sleeve, bringing it up to her mouth so she can moisten it a bit with her saliva. She then, _entirely against her wishes_ , reaches across their little table for two, brings her damp sleeve up to that smear on his cheek, and rubs at it until it goes away.

The smile on his face has slackened into shock and she’s pretty sure now _her_ face is red.

“Oh god, sorry,” She apologizes again because she just wiped her spit all over his face right after ignoring whatever he was saying.

He recovers briefly, perhaps bolstered by her blatant embarrassment, before blurting out, “I imagined the first time we swapped bodily fluids would be sexier,” And all his hard-won delight crumbles into matching embarrassment. He drops his face into his hands, his right hand twitching when it meets his cheek _because it’s probably still damp from that impromptu cleaning_.

Now both of them are blushing and she honestly can’t stop it, but she laughs; and soon after he starts laughing. Then it’s just the two of them caught in a helpless cycle of laughter, probably drawing the confused and irritated attention of everyone else in the cafe.

It takes ages for them to stop, and when they finally do she’s clutching her ribs because _ow_ , and he’s actually wheezing a little.

The cafe is a little emptier, and she hopes it’s not their fault. The baristas both seem enthralled by the cake-pop display, so they can’t be too angry.

He smiles at her–and either he’s just a naturally happy person or she’s better at this dating thing than she thought because he hasn’t really stopped smiling this entire time. It’s a nice smile. She’s not going to deny that it’s part of the reason why she’s on this date: he’s got a handsome face with an attractive smile to match. But she likes how it’s a smile that’s there because of her.

“Is there something on _my_ face?” She asks, setting it up.

“No, why?” He says, a little breathless.

“It’s just that… it’s not _really_ swapping if it was just me,” She answers slyly, closing her eyes and tilting her face towards him. She gets one bright bark of laughter, which she had been aiming for, before something warm and a little rough touches her cheek. Her eyes fly open in time for her to see his face moving away.

They stare at each other, and she can see the moment when he thinks he’s overstepped his boundaries; his gaze becomes less dreamy and edges into panic. But before he can apologize, she grabs at his hand resting on the table.

There’s a loud racket as the cake-pop display crashes to the ground, but it’s not enough to stop them from grinning dopily at each other.


	27. Untitled (2015-02-07)

He runs as fast as he can, his breathing loud in his ears syncopated with his footfalls slapping against wet pavement. It’s dark and the drizzling rainclouds block what little moonlight there could have been. The lampposts in this part of town are hit and miss, maybe only a third of them have a weak, flickering glow; the rest of them are dead.

Like he will be if his pursuers catch up.

He’s been lucky so far, as much as just barely being able to stay ahead of people trying to kill him can be considered lucky. He’s stumbled and fallen a few times, has tears in his trousers and scraped knees and palms to show for it, but it’s always been easy to pick himself back up. He hasn’t hit any dead ends yet, even though he’s gone beyond the areas he’s familiar with. For the most part, his size lets him squeeze through places that prevent his pursuers with much longer legs from following so easily.

But they are still on his trail, and he is getting tired.

He’s on the outskirts of the city–there’s no retail or residential buildings here, just warehouses and defunct railroad tracks. He’s considering the junkyard, the piles of trash should deter his would-be-killers, but he knows that junkyard dogs are not exactly fictional and it may be as much a danger for him as it is for them. But the other option is to run around the empty railroad tracks with no cover or hiding spots beyond a few abandoned train cars, which would be easy enough to search through.

So he climbs. There’s barbed wire at the top which catches and tears at the fabric of his clothes, and a few even get to the skin underneath, but it’s a minor distraction and he pushes through. On the other side of the fence, the junkyard seems bigger. As if it were a city unto itself. As he creeps through the maze of trash, he can kind of tell there’s an attempt at organization: the cars are lined up in neat rows despite their own crumpled forms, one small mountain is all electronics, another all furniture and fabrics.

They know where he is, they must do, because he can hear raised voices and the rattling of the metal fence. One of them, the one he just calls Baldy in his head, yells for wire cutters. Why they have that on hand makes his gut churn with fear, but he pushes on. He’s so focused on listening for his pursuers that he has completely missed the fact that there are now two dogs in front of him. Two really huge, really muscular dogs. With very big mouths and no doubt very large teeth.

He might have peed on himself a little bit. But they’re not growling which… is probably a good thing? Instead one of them, the one that looks like police dogs on TV, just huffs and walks away while the other, which is taller and less furry, with a wider and droopier face, slowly makes its way closer to him. He knows better than to make any sudden movements, so instead he just freezes in his crouch which is rather uncomfortable for his calves but he’s been mean to them all evening so whatever.

The dog that stayed edges closer and closer until its face is right next to his. Then it sticks it’s nose right into his armpit which is ticklish and causes him to fall backwards. Immediately the dog is on him, but it’s friendly if a rather invasive, since it seems content to just sniff him in really awkward places. He’s trying really hard not to laugh and keeps trying, and failing, to push the dog’s face away.

Suddenly though, the dog starts to growl. But its not looking down at him, it’s looking forward. Which means, for him, he looks up from where he’s lying just in time to see his pursuers turn into the same pathway. They start yelling threats at him, and maybe some at the dog too.

The dog’s stance is protective over him, but its just one dog against over five guys who probably have guns or some kind of weapons. Until there’s a chorus of barking and growling and waves of furry legs and paws rush past him and then its more like twenty dogs against five guys.

Two of them do have guns, which they pull out and start firing, and he feels sick, because these dogs are going to die because of him, but amazingly none of them hit. They just… stop in midair before being pulled down by gravity. And his pursuers couldn’t outrun one tired boy, let alone twenty angry dogs so soon enough they’re dragged down under the weight of several dogs each.

He closes his eyes, because he hates those guys but he doesn’t actually want to see people getting mauled.

“Peace, child. Cease your crying. They will live.” A raspy voice says, which makes the dog literally standing guard over him finally stop growling.

But it’s aimed at him, which is weird because he didn’t even notice he was crying until he was told to stop. He opens his eyes again and turns his head to see scuffed brown boots and faded blue denim in the beam of a flashlight.

“Blitz, off,” the stranger says, and the dog backs up until he can sit up, “Come now, I have medical supplies… and cleaning supplies” And the stranger walks away, unmindful of the canine-human battle happening only a few yards away, uncaring if he actually follows or not.

The dog, Blitz, just looks at him, tail wagging slowly.

Considering he’s covered in mud and blood and dog saliva and his own urine, he would be stupid not to follow.


	28. Untitled (2015-02-08)

_Sometimes, death is a kindness._

The flower on my desk finally bloomed today. It’s been almost two months since you gave it to me, it had stayed an obstinate green stalk the entire time, but now the buds are finally starting to open. There were a moments of mishaps–one of the leaves broke under it’s own height and weight, one day I over watered it and had to spend fifteen minutes carefully draining the pot–but its survived this long.

I wonder what it will look like.

_Sometimes, death is a necessity._

Last week I didn’t wake up to my alarm clock. I didn’t wake up until one in the afternoon, almost fourteen hours of sleep. I could barely open my eyes, and even then it was because the coughs wracking my body wouldn’t let me go back to sleep. My stomach was in turmoil and my head pounded and I spent the rest of what little was left of the day hunched over the toilet puking stomach acid.

Even now my throat is still raw.

_Sometimes, death is a stranger._

I’m running out of food and water, I need to go grocery shopping soon. There’s a few oranges and one small jug of water, but that won’t last me very long. But I’m hesitant to leave the house, there’s a storm outside and my rainy-day driving skills are not the best. Maybe I’ll just sleep it away, the storm and my hunger.

My bed is so warm.

_Sometimes, death is a friend._


	29. Untitled (2015-02-09)

I’ve never had sex before. Which makes me a virgin, I guess. It’s not something to be praised or pitied or mocked. It just is.

I think of not having had sex like a lot of activities– I’ve never flown in a hot air balloon before. I don’t have a burning need to do so before I die, I don’t find it particularly appealing–kind of inefficient and silly, really. But I’m not averse to it, I’m not scared of heights or anything. I just… don’t want to.

And that’s okay.

It’s okay to love hot air balloons, to want to go up in the air all the time. It’s okay to want to save it for special occasions, with a special someone. It’s okay to not particularly mind, but want to do so because someone you like wants to. It’s okay to be scared of heights and even avoid thinking about it. It’s okay to not even like it but do so anyway because, hey, maybe you work for a hot air balloon company.

It’s all okay.

And sex is like that too. Or at least it should be. Not all of us want to be up in the air, and that doesn’t make us sad or broken or lesser. And someone who wants to be up in the air all the time isn’t stupid or sick or wasting their lives.

I’ve never had sex before, nor do I want to, but that doesn’t mean I never will. I’ve never been in a hot air balloon, but who knows, maybe one day I’ll fly.


	30. Untitled (2015-02-11)

Like with all things, there is a diminishing return of value to immortality. That first moment of realization will always be amongst the top, if not the best, part. There may be times after that–when you get hit by car and survive, or when your friends start to get their first wrinkles and tricky joints–that you think your invincibility and everlasting youth is a good thing. As time marches on, this happens less and less.

The first few years, maybe even the first few decades, immortality is not such a bad thing. But then, your family and friends start to get older. They age, they die. You don’t. You are invulnerable to death and change, which is human nature to fear. But maybe you’re not human anymore.

When the last of your loved ones’ loved ones die, for even love is finite in the face of forever, you realize that you have no history. There are no more shared moments because all of those you shared them with are dead. There is no one left to tie you down, and so you are adrift. You have no past, only a looming endless future. And you begin to wonder how long forever really is. If your lack of death has somehow stretched your life forwards and backwards. 

Infinity is a paradox, one which you are living.


	31. Untitled (2015-02-18)

He hates sitting in a chair instead of in a booth. Anyone can walk behind him, there’s no safe comfortable wall behind his back. It’s unnerving.

It’s especially unnerving when you’re trying to stay calm in front of people who could potentially be allies. Or enemies. Depending on how well this meeting goes.

It’s a circular table, though his three lunch companions are noticeably seated closer to each other than to him. They’re a panel, judging him. He thinks he’s doing okay, though.

He’s made the eldest laugh, honest surprised laughter. And while the one on the left hasn’t stopped glaring at him for the past forty-five minutes, the one in the middle is invoking some sort of kindergarten teacher zen.

There’s two more points they need to discuss, and he’s feeling fairly optimistic about the entire deal, until he hears it. That voice.

Oh shit.

He can feel his face spasm, genial smile quickly morphing into a grimace. The three of them across the table now have matching expressions–riveted interest mixed with mild amusement.

“Well isn’t this a pleasant surprise? It’s been a while, Paul.”

He shuts his eyes, stupidly, because that bastard is behind him and if anything blocking his sight makes that voice all the more detailed. When he realizes that and opens his eyes, the looks on their faces are worse. Concerned.

“Won’t you introduce me to your companions?”

Heedlessly, recklessly, his hands fly to cover his ears like a child. It doesn’t help. It blocks out everyone’s voices, but now all he can hear is his rabbit-quick pulse.


	32. Adventures of Jack and Ness ficlet (2015-02-19)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Adventures of Jack and Ness are unrelated stories revolving around best friends in vastly different worlds and situations.
> 
> related to Chapters 47 and 94

They are driving down to Los Angeles for the week. Eight hours in a small space with each other is just one of many things they’ll have to put up with for the job, but it’s not the worse they’ve ever done. At least this time no one is shooting at them.

“Hold my hand,” he asks, his right hand fingers wiggling childishly above the center console. They have a rule which in dangerous situations makes sense but otherwise is kind of annoying. For the passenger. Basically, whoever is driving gets to call the shots. It makes sense, and it has saved their lives multiple times, but it also means Jack gets to eek out physical affection from her that she normally only employs for undercover work.

Ness does so, because rules are rules, and honestly at least he’s not making her feed him apple slices or sing along with the radio. Also, this leaves her with one hand free to use her phone and check her email.

“Ah. Message from Vi,” she says, “we’re meeting her and her protege for lunch before the meeting with the client.” It’s not like there’s a specific protocol or etiquette involved, but usually teams wait until after the kick off meeting before intra team discussions. Then again, Jack and Ness have worked with Vi many times before but they’ve yet to even see the protege.

“Mama bear’s finally letting baby bird spread his little wings?” Jack asks, the hand wrapped around hers briefly flapping twice before curling back closed.

“I suppose so. Not sure if this is for our benefit or his.” On the one hand, it does give them the courtesy of meeting their fourth member before seeing the client. Presenting a united front and all that. On the other, they may be getting the shotgun and shovel talk or whatever the equivalent is for professional high stakes semi-illegal undertakings.

“Anything is better than Jaguar’s over protectiveness of her brother. She tasered me!” Again, his hand twitches around hers, this time as if he had electricity coursing through his body.

“Twice,” she reminds him.

“Twice!” He agrees.

“Well, Simon is a civilian.”

“But he’s in the know,” Jack complained.

“And he’s got a boyfriend anyway. You were just flirting to bug Jaguar. I wouldn’t have tasered you, but I would have done something. Like put laxatives in your coffee.” Ness admonished, typing a confirmation for Vi.

He sighed, then considering, nodded grudgingly. “I’d do the same too, I guess.”

“Thanks,” she said, squeezing their joined hands for a bit, then relaxing, tolerating the combined body heat and ensuing damp.


	33. Untitled (2015-02-24)

You have a mole on your neck, a little above and to the side of your collar bone. Depending on what kind of top you wear it is either hidden from view, or demurely sits just above the neckline. It’s my favorite part of your body to kiss. I enjoy when our lips and tongues and teeth touch, and you know how eager I am to pleasure you with my mouth, but I must admit that I am fondest of that mole.

My lips crave soft skin, the jut of bone just beneath. But what I love most about kissing that mole is simply that you allow me to do so. Just me. I have seen you slap strangers for intruding on your personal space, less fortunate than I for not having your permission. I have seen you flip collars and wrap scarves to hide your neck from the world. I have seen you shudder in fear and mistrust from even the mere idea of someone touching your neck. But me, you allow the slightest touch of lips to skin. Just me.

And that, more than anything says that you love me as much as I love you.


	34. Untitled (2015-03-03)

My father and I are much alike. From the outside, people say it as a compliment–he’s a respectable man, I should be honored–but it’s not always a good thing.

We emote silently, or at the very least non-verbally. Regretting silently is a show of submission; grieving in the same manner, a show of strength. Restraining words in anger prevents others from getting hurt; and a smile always more honest than flattery.

But it’s a dangerous thing–it makes words spoken in the midst of emotional turmoil, all the more potent. They are concentrated, crystallized feelings in verbal form; mused over in a specific head state, turned this way and that at different angles to sharpen them into knives. Or worse, when there is such a tidal wave of emotions that it breaks through your self control, bursts out rapid fire like spray of bullets.

Taciturn and solemn and stoic, they are admirable descriptions until you deal with them personally.

We are takers, not givers. It’s an unreliable binary, steeped in bias, but not entirely false. Givers are not always generous out of altruism, and takers not always selfish, endless consumers. But there is an implicit assumption to givers and takers, they always assume others are like them.

With my mother, when she gives she expects others to give back. It’s not necessarily that she wants something in particular, but she wants reciprocity, she wants a counter offer. It’s uncomfortable, a heavy weight that presses down. It’s less an I owe you and more a you owe me; a favor for a favor, whether you want it or not.

But with my father and I, we are conscientious takers. We take only what we need because taking more tips the balance, taking more means less in the future… and someone is at the other’s mercy. We are calculating and scrupulous, but that doesn’t necessarily mean we’re heartless.

We have hearts, they’re just rather on the cold side.


	35. Untitled (2015-03-04)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally posted as a recording

In the world of espionage and assassination, being tall is not all what it’s cracked up to be. Sure, with longer limbs come superior reach and leverage, but your center of gravity is further from the ground, making it easier to knock you down and keep you there.

Outside of fights, which don’t occur as often as fiction would have you believe, extra height is not necessarily a benefit. An implicit intimidation factor can help in some cases, but in others it can be a disadvantage. If you need to, for example, walk away unnoticed from an explosion you’ve caused? Being tall is a hindrance.

If you’re six feet five inches, you’re at least half a foot taller than the average person in a crowd. Meaning you can’t exactly disappear when you’re sticking out like a sore thumb. Moreover, if you are that tall and have the muscles of a professional athlete without the clout of being one, the authorities likely aren’t going to believe you’re some innocent bystander. Especially with all that soot and debris on you.

In contrast, if you’re, let’s say, five foot three, then getting away is easy. When the top of your head is below the eye level of the people searching for you, it makes hiding effortless. In the unlikely event that they do pull you aside for questioning, there’s a greater chance they’ll believe you when you stutter out that you don’t know what happened. Add in some trembling and crying, and they’ll apologize to you for the traumatic experience.

-

If you’re shooting at an enemy, don’t aim for their head. While usually that means an instant kill, no matter how sharp a shooter you are, it’s very easy for them to dodge. Ducking is as simple as letting gravity pull you down.

Instead, shoot at their core–stomach, waist, chest. Ducking isn’t going to help them, and unless you’re shooting at an Olympic high jumper going the opposite direction isn’t going to help them either. Stepping to either side relies on them being able to predict the trajectory of a bullet going two thousand feet per second. It’s just not going to happen. So shooting at your enemy’s torso is best: not only is it harder for you to miss, you have a wide variety of vital organs to hit.

-

Youth is a double-edged sword. Correction, assumed youth is a double-edged sword. If you’re blessed with youthful features or even excellent makeup abilities, it’s easy to appear as an indistinct teenager. Unless you present yourself as a surly delinquent, or you’re surrounded by irrational morons, a teenager isn’t going to be held culpable for crimes more serious than shoplifting, graffiti, or terrible driving.

Of course, by disavowing any responsibility, there’s the risk of being pulled under the wing of some well-meaning authority figure. You can’t exactly break your cover, because that will put you back on the suspect list, which means you’ll just have to stick to your lies and wait for the opportunity to ditch the mother hen.

~

When you’re going undercover, everything about you has to match your backstory. Your clothes, your hair, your movements. That being said, make sure you use a backstory that you can take on without much effort. Even the best actors have trouble staying in character when they’re surprised or in pain, and those tend to be the moments when you need it the most.

The most common mistake is having an accent one moment, then losing it the next as you cry out in pain. Accents also tend to be the easiest to bust as fake–not remembering a supposed common acquaintance can be chalked up to faulty memory, but if you fluctuate between a Bostonian accent and a Jersey accent then people will know something is up.

Instead, consider changing your speech patterns: if you’re normally a concise and eloquent speaker, then mumbling and sprinkling in a few ums, and you knows, and I guesses, reinforces a cover more than a fake Louisiana drawl. To a listener, accents come from specific locations that can be tested and those tests possibly failed. Speech patterns, on the other hand, reflect a thought process, which gives you some leeway in your actions. It also means any changes in how you speak when under duress is attributed to the situation instead of inconsistent acting abilities.


	36. Untitled (2015-03-09)

“Good evening,”

“What are you doing in my house?” She all but growled, shoving the intruder against the wall, arm pressed threateningly against their throat.

“House is a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?” They murmured, without a trace of fear. And were it not said so condescendingly, she would have admitted it were true. The peeling paint, dented and pock-marked walls, and dust-stained windows–dilapidated was the first word that would come to mind.

Regardless, “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

Their eyes landed back on hers, mouth curled into a smirk. “You wouldn’t know me, but I’ve heard of you. And I’ve heard about a certain problem you have that I can help you with…”

Anger was beginning to wane, so she pulled his arm away, but irritation still remained and so beyond that she didn’t move. “What problem?”

“Why, your dead brother, of course.”

And there was the anger again. This time, her arm pressed harder, no longer just a threat but enough force to make speaking impossible, breathing difficult, and a person’s vision begin to blur.

But still no fear.

So she pulled away again, because she wanted answers more than she wanted to hurt someone. “I already caught those bastards who killed him,” It had taken months–of her mother’s frustrated tears, of her sister-in-law’s accusing eyes, of her baby niece’s unknowing fear–but she caught them.

“That’s not what I said at all. Justice doesn’t concern me, vengeance even less so.”

“So what–” Her voice choked at the possibility that remained, “What are you talking about?”

“I think you know,” They said, still as physically submissive as before but somehow more powerful, “How do you solve a problem of a dead brother?”

You bring him back to life, went unsaid by either of them.

“You’ll have to talk to my mother,” She demurred, but didn’t reject, finally backing up.

“I already did. Do you think I would be so disrespectful as to not approach the matriarch first?” They ask, as if the question–the content and the phrasing–was a matter of common sense.

She frowned, “Then why do you need to come to me?”

“If it’s going to work I’m going to need ingredients. And help.” They smiled in return, a wide sharp Cheshire grin. “You’re just number two of three.”

-

Except for the funeral, which was a whole other can of worms in and of itself, they hadn’t all been gathered in the same space since before her brother died. It would have been hard enough, considering that her sister-in-law not so quietly blamed her, without the… magician making inappropriate comments. Such as:

“Let’s not play coy, I’m a necromancer.”

and

“Luckily you didn’t cremate the body, that would have made things difficult.”

and even

“This baby will cause such marvelous deaths in the future, have you considered appointing her a magical godparent?”

Most of which went ignored.

Finally, after the bitterness festering in between the three women was at least partially resolved, partially transformed into shared wariness against the necromancer, they were able to get to business.

“Here’s how it works: he was son, brother, father. So from mother, sister, daughter I require bone, blood, and hair.”

There was shouting in response, her sister-in-law outraged at any hint of damage to the baby, but the necromancer remained unmoved until finally her mother asked for clarification.

“From mother, bone. And, I’ll let you know now–teeth are okay. You will not believe the amount of morons who cut off a finger without thinking about it. From sister, blood. From daughter, hair. I admit, the fluff isn’t much but it’s a reasonable price to pay. Don’t you think?”

“Of course not–” Her sister-in-law blustered, before being interrupted.

“I wasn’t asking you, I was asking her.” And their eyes were fixed on the baby.

“You realize she’s only eleven months old,” Her mother said slowly, less frightened and more skeptical of the necromancer.

“Mind magicks may not be the strongest in my repertoire, but even I can get a read off a baby’s emotions in the same room.” They huffed, and for the first time they expressed an emotion that wasn’t infuriating smugness.

“Second, this will only work once. If he dies again, not even I can do anything about him. And third, if I die, he dies.”

“How dare you–” She stood, the better to tower over, to intimidate.

“It is not a threat, but a fact.” They said calmly, as nonchalant as always. “What I want in return is a favor from each of you. Favor from mother, sister, daughter. And yes, baby, I get it. I’m not going to ask for a favor now, obviously.”

The three women, and one baby, were silent, pondering.

They agreed.


	37. Untitled (2015-03-10)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first section related to Triptych 'verse

She is recruited into SPAN not long after being promoted from postulant to novice in the Biology Guild. She’s been at the artificer rank in both Cryptography-Coding and Security for the past few years, the former for three the latter for four. SPAN requires beings to be a part of two Guilds, they do prefer recruits to have an even wider array.

~

Approaching a target in order to achieve a desired objective is more of a science than an art. When you’re trying to get something you want, it’s best to make it a definitive transaction instead of something that can be held over your head in the future. Being desperate removes any leverage you might have had in negotiations. Instead, try making it seem like you’re doing them a favor with your desired objective being their payment.

~

This is not what you envisioned your life would be–a house-spouse to a man five years your junior, who you aren’t even technically married to, and surrogate parent to his adopted daughter who has a penchant for combining fashion and mechanics. What happened to you? What happened to that teenager who would run rampant all day long, pulling all-nighters for the hell of it, fighting with fists and words until you were free to do whatever you want?

But you realize, this is what you want. You love that goofball of a man and his eccentric daughter. You love cooking and keeping the small house in tip-top shape. You love not having every moment be full of drama and conflict, not having to carve out your place in the world with teeth and blood. You’re content, and it’s startling, but you like it.


	38. Word Prompts (W15): Weary

The night sky is dark, stars and moon hidden by clouds, it feels as if even the universe wants to rest tonight. As if it knew what you have been through, knows what you still need to do, and is commiserating. Or perhaps, it is turning it’s back on you–disavowing itself of you and your problems.

If only you could do the same. But would you, if you could? Would you really? For though you are tired, and rest is unavailable to you, you do not feel like giving up just yet. Not when your brothers are still alive, still breathing the soft, slow breaths of sleep. Hearts still beating the steady, hopeful beats of youth and innocence.

No, you would not.

The night air is cold, each exhale puffing out with steam, as if each breath robs you of more and more heat. But your brothers are huddle around you, curled in parentheses on either side of you. And it fits, as if the three of you are a secret, an aside in this world. Not insignificant, but intimate. Their faces are pressed into your ribs, their soft sleepy breaths warming your tired, weary heart.

It is enough, you think. This is enough. This will not be the last of such nights. You will find yourself bracketed on each side by a brother, sharing a single blanket, sharing body heat, many times after this. But this is enough. That you can have this one moment of peace, even if imagined in the still of the night. It is not the the thrill or inspiration that will move you, but this–this steady, solid peace. This will sustain you for as long as you need.


	39. Adventures of Jack and Ness ficlet (2015-03-23)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Adventures of Jack and Ness are unrelated stories revolving around best friends in vastly different worlds and situations.
> 
> loosely related to Chapters 4, 9, 40, and 92

Like clockwork, Thunder is bought for a private lap-dance every Tuesday night at ten-thirty pm by the same person. He has other customers as well, and even other regulars, but this one in particular is his favorite. And not just because the guy’s a very good tipper.

“I think I’m in love,” he sighs, neatly avoiding a swat from Ness’ towel as he helps her set up the bar.

“Oh, darling, don’t do this to yourself,” she exhales, but doesn’t put much effort into it. Who is she to tell someone not to fall in love? And anyway, it’s far too late.

“Do you know what the worst part is? The worst part is, he still calls me Thunder. Even though I already told him my real name!” He mourns, dramatically draping himself over one of the stools. It’s only four o'clock, far too early for costumes and make-up, so he makes for a sad droopy picture in sweats and soft, ungelled hair.

Ness says nothing, though she can’t help the wince. It’s dangerous for the employees give out their real names, talents especially.

“Don’t make that face. Jack is a common name. It’s not like I gave him my full name or, like, my social security number. It’s not like he knows who I am,” Jack sighs, then, spotting Tommy with Dandelion, their lone actual feline presence in the Cat’s Meow, begins grumbling, “Not like a certain someone with Queen Dandelion’s lady knight,”

“Don’t be jealous,” Ness admonishes, “Laila’s a good kid. She comes here for tea and platonic, positive human and feline interaction. And naps. Now, are you going to help me or are you going to continue your little agony session in the middle of my bar?”

“I could do both,” he suggests cheekily, though pulls himself up and continues to to arrange stools, instead. A few minutes later, after a comfortable rhythm has been established, Jack adds wistfully, “I just wish I knew what he thought about me.”

It’s a harder wish to grant than one would think. Thunder’s most reliable customer doesn’t buy lap-dances for the most common reason of lust, or even the occasional reason of loneliness. He’s able to follow the rules–namely, that of no touching–simply because as soon as the dance starts he just… zones out. And, again, not in the usual arousal-induced mind-numbing. It’s as if Jack’s lap-dances were visual white noise; literal navel gazing, even if that navel happens to be Jack’s and not his own.

Supposedly, he draws inspiration from it. Or at least he says he does at the end of every session while giving a polite smile and hefty tip. But inspiration for what, frankly, remains a mystery.


	40. Untitled (2015-03-23)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> related to Chapters 4, 9, 39, and 92

Surprisingly, it was Laila that solved the mystery. Or, at least, brought to light that said mystery… wasn’t.

“Oh, I know him,” she quipped sleepily from her seat in the corner booth, which had been, since the day she stepped through the doors, reserved solely for her use. Dandelion the cat sprawled elegantly next to her while Tommy the human lay curled up on her other side. Both of their heads were in her lap, gently being scratched, and they both had identical looks of half-lidded bliss. With all the blankets and pillows around her, and the Cat’s Meow’s only tea set in front of her, she looked like an ailing, well attended child-queen.

Jack, having already shed his Thunder persona along with his dignity with the appearance of Mr Tuesday, felt no shame in butting into the scene. Tommy growled at him, but grudging sat up properly to give him room to sit.

“Who is he?” Jack tried not to shout at her, though his eagerness was undeniable. Ness couldn’t have possibly heard, being too far away and busy with drink orders beside, but she glanced in their direction. Warningly at him in particular, “Please,” Jack amended.

“He works for CRO-Tech Industries, he’s like… second in command there,” Laila explained, “Suleiman Isidore is more well-known, but he’s not the only genius inventor,”

“How do you know that?” Tommy asked, as eager to know more about her as Jack was to know about Mr Tuesday.

“Oh. Well, Suleiman is my cousin.”


	41. Adventures of Jack and Ness ficlet (2015-03-25)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Adventures of Jack and Ness are unrelated stories revolving around best friends in vastly different worlds and situations.
> 
> This one is set in Cadmium City

They’re best friends in the way that usually people confuse them for siblings or lovers or even, horrifically, that one time in a Starbucks, both.

“We don’t look that much alike,” Ness mutters, but glares suspiciously at her warped reflection in Jack’s spoon.

“And it’s obvious that you’re far too busy having unresolved sexual tension with Henrietta Stowe. You wouldn’t cheat on me, would you?” Jack pouts, bottom lip jutting out ridiculously.

“Don’t worry darling, I wouldn’t cheat on you with Henrietta Stowe…” She pats his shoulder in mock comfort.

“Aw, thanks.”

“… with Joy Guerrero, though? Yes. I would drop you in a heartbeat.” Ness grins, unashamed.

Jack’s pout grows even more exaggerated, before likewise shifting into a matching grin, “If she ever deems either of us worthy, I would do the same.”


	42. Untitled (2015-03-30)

There was this girl who was amazing–she was smart and talented and determined and flawed, but still amazing. I use the word ‘was’ because she 'is’ dead now. And it sucks.

I never knew her personally, in fact, I didn’t even know her name until after she died. I didn’t bother to learn her name until after she died.

Delia Nemenzo

This applies to seven other people: the number of people who died during the Belmont Science Expo.

Xavier Gray  
Vera Fay Young  
Richard Dallan  
Trina Davidson  
Min-Sol Chung  
Brenda Felix  
Chester Amon

I didn’t know any of them. Not all of them were presenters, not all of them were students. I’m sorry I can’t do more for them, or for the loved ones they left behind. At least for Delia Nemenzo, I can do one small thing.

I was there at the Belmont Science Expo when the explosion happened. I got out relatively unscathed, considering I was in the blast radius–a broken wrist, a concussion, second-degree burns on my arms. Most of my equipment is still usable–though I did have to get my camera lens replaced, and a new cellphone. My mom cried, she had been worried–she had known I was there for a job, but she hadn’t known what happened to me.

I had been hired to record the Expo and make a short film summarizing the event. It was kind of difficult, since I was only allowed the one camera and, due to security concerns, I was the only one with a camera so I couldn’t just edit together other people’s footage and call it a day. But nothing unusual, I had done it the previous two years. It seemed crass to make one of this year’s Expo; Belmont University agreed. I’m somewhat ashamed to be thankful that they didn’t take back the deposit.

I had been filming the presentations, obviously, since they were the centerpiece of the Expo. Delia Nemenzo was in the midst of hers during the explosion. I recorded her last moments of life. In a less morbid statement, I also recorded student interviews before their presentations. She had been bright and happy and nervous as she answered the scripted questions. I hadn’t cared then. But I do now.

And I know some people who would care even more.

I don’t know if it’s insensitive, or harmful, but I have a DVD for the Nemenzo family and some flowers for the casket.


	43. Untitled Cross Post (Thurs Oct 27)

My first sip of alcohol was champagne. My father had some kind of celebratory social event–he wasn’t the one being celebrated, but he, and thus I, was invited. The sun was bright and our clothing pretty but impractical–I was uncomfortably warm.

A toast! To the initiates or cadets or graduates, I don’t remember. I remember the amusing artwork on a neighboring building–stick people trying to climb into windows. I remember the white plastic fold out chairs with blue balloons tied at the end of each row.

The champagne was served in those cheap, wannabe glasses that aren’t made out of glass at all. I took a sip and immediately regretted it. The alcohol seared my young tongue and the carbonation fizzed unpleasantly in my nose. I gave my not-glass glass to my father. He had already finished his.

My second taste of alcohol was, in contrast, at night. My older sister, of a legal age to drink, had begun an exploratory campaign to find what she liked. Multiple tiny colored bottles appeared in the refrigerator. They disappeared soon enough.

One night, almost alone in the apartment, I had been preparing to sleep. My younger sister entered our dark shared room, her silhouette revealing little else but her height which I envied. Try this, you’ll probably like it, she said. In her hands was a tiny porcelain mug, the kind for children with cartoon characters painted on it.

How do you know that? I asked. It was hard lemonade–I do have a soft spot for lemonade. Okay, I said, only a little. She transferred that cool tiny mug into my own hands, and I took a sip. I know what real lemonade should taste like and that just accentuated the alcohol. She may have finished the mug or poured it down the drain, but not long after she returned and we said good night.

My third experience of alcohol was not actually as a drink. At a family reunion–the large kind where you don’t really know that many people and it take a while to figure out how exactly people are related–my sisters and closer cousins sat in the shade of a short tree. Too numerous to fit around our allocated table, some of us sat on the grass or along a brick ledge.

My older cousin, who I would say to almost be a brother to me if I had any experience with male siblings, or perhaps my first crush if you believe in Freud’s Oedipal complex, sat beside me. A few inches apart, close enough for familiarity and far enough not to add to the summer heat or jostle our elbows. I looked over at his white disposable cup, curiously, for his movements were not as smooth as usual.

A mischievous and secretive grin, he tilted the cup in my direction. Dark red wine and floating pink blocks of watermelon. He held it out to me and I took the smallest cube, cool in my mouth. That alone was worth a smile. I placed it under my tongue, away from my taste buds, and couldn’t tell him that I didn’t really like it.


	44. Untitled Cross Post (Fri Mar 16)

He’d saved her because what else could he do? He hadn’t been good enough to save his sister or his annoying brother-in-law, but the least he could do was save their daughter. His niece.

“Saved” in the loosest sense of the term. He had been too late to save her from the burning rubble costing her her legs, from the smoke inhalation that ruined her lungs, from the flames that grilled her skin and eyes. Without him, she would have had to wait another ten minutes for the fire brigade and she wouldn’t have survived that long.

Of course, without him, her pleasant childhood in the suburbs wouldn’t have been obliterated by a bomb meant to teach him a lesson.

She’s now under his guardianship; he wouldn’t abandon her again, but the agency won’t let him go either. He’s not necessarily their best nor is he irreplaceable, but it’s much easier to take care of a handicapped little girl than to find and train another loyal agent.

She grows up in that sterile room in headquarters. They give her an education but put her on media blackout. They provide rehabilitation but deny her freedom. He hates going to visit her, but he would hate himself more if he didn’t.

Then he gets shot in the chest. He’s lucky it was from a turncoat agent in headquarters, near enough to a state of the art infirmary, near enough to a genetically viable replacement heart. Lucky in the loosest sense of the term.

“They said you were going to be up and about soon,” The cardiopulmonary bypass machine is a glaringly obvious addition to her room.

“Why would you…” Because they’re not that kind of family. Because he knows that he might have saved her, but he also ruined her. Because that bomb and that fire had destroyed almost everything, her parents, her childhood, her life, her dreams (she had wanted to be an artist once, before she lost her ability to dance and her lovely voice and her love for painting). Almost everything, because it had left her heart alone.

He keeps ruining her. Now he has a heart too small, and she doesn’t have a heart at all.


	45. Untitled Cross Post (Mon 15 Oct)

During the night I woke up three times cold, paranoid, and heart pumping with adrenaline. Each time I lay back down to sleep I decided whether or not I wanted to continue this nightmare, for surely that’s what it was. From a narrative stance, it was one of my more entertaining dreams, but experiencing it in real time was one of the worst. I kept going, because I wanted to know the ending. I kept going, because I wanted to know the beginning.

I had committed a heinous crime. I’m quite sure it involved multiple accounts of murder, for there had been flashes of gore and blood and limbs all around what looked like a police station. There were also two missing people–a police officer and his son–the public was unsure if they were alive or dead. And so was I.

In my dream, I had woken up with a head injury, amnesia, and my picture being shown on all major news channels as a dangerous fugitive. I had no idea what I had done or why I had done it. All I knew was that I was being chased, and I couldn’t be caught. It was dark, my coat covered in blood, and I didn’t know where I was or where I was going.

The dream featured a number of people from my real life, faces I had merely seen in passing and family and friends. It was interesting to see who fell on which side–the side to help me escape or the side that would turn me over to the authorities with my memories still lost.

One of my sisters, I was surprised and almost betrayed to see, was on the side of the law–hunting me down with a pair of what were her old teammates. While they had been viciously and sadistically enjoying the chase (we had never gotten along in high school), my sister seemed almost sorry for what she was doing. It wasn’t her fault: firstly, she was a bounty hunter, it was her job. But more importantly, she was my sister, if I had really become the remorseless kidnapping and murdering monster that I appeared, it was her duty to bring me in herself. She almost caught me.

I woke up; heart racing, somehow cold while still being strangled by my blankets. The white noise my roommate played, once irritating, now calmed me. I was not running for my life, lost. I wanted to know what happened next.

My childhood best friend somehow managed to find me and help, despite how disoriented and afraid and mistrusting I was. She rescued me from the metaphorical hounds at my heels, running alongside me despite the danger it must have put her in. She couldn’t fill me in much, only that I had called earlier, before I had lost my memory, asking for a favor. “Anything,” she recalled to me, “I said you could ask for anything.” But the situation looked terrible. “Anything,” she repeated.

The me that called her, that remembered, had instructed her to bring me to an inn called The Sleeping Swan. My childhood best friend had enlisted the help of her father–physically frail and elderly, but still quite the hellion–as a hilariously effective getaway driver, pushing the blue minivan to it’s limits as I changed out of bloodstained clothing in the back. The police was still on my trail, make no doubt about it, but this ridiculous minivan was a fragile bubble of relief.

Soon enough we were skidding to a stop outside of the inn. That was as far as my childhood best friend and her father went. Because that was as far as I would let them go. Thanking them again, so much; please be safe. They parroted the words back, though just as concerned if in a different way. I wondered, briefly, where my current best friend was; if she would appear at some point in this madness. We said our goodbyes, because we knew we would never see each other again.

The Sleeping Swan was simultaneously a trap and not. The phone call had been monitored, and a pair of federal agents were lying in wait for me to arrive. One of them, who I now recognize from one of my classes, was desperate for my arrest–he needed to prove himself, needed the glory from being the hero to stop the villain that I had been portrayed as. The other, based off a friend living on the floor above me, was actually there to help. Me, that is.

The common area was crowded–I must have been pulling images from movies; the rowdiness of a medieval tavern, but the design of a fairly nice hotel lobby–but I was still able to find her. Her outfit I remember clearly, because it’s one I’ve actually seen her wear: a no-nonsense black skirt suit with an electric blue, cheetah patterned scarf. She sat pristinely on a white sofa, I went to sit across from her.

She couldn’t speak for long, she told me, “My partner’s waiting for a signal, and I can’t stall forever. I have some things to give you, some details I couldn’t print out, but I’ve emailed them to a dummy account. The details are here,” She handed me a hastily scribbled card and an envelope, “The others have made it safely to the meeting point, they’re so grateful. I am, too. You’re very brave for doing this on your own, hang in there, you can do it.”

I wanted to ask her, because she seemed to know, what I had done. Why did she think was brave or even vaguely good when everyone was being told otherwise? Who were the others? But before I could, her partner stormed in and shot me with his gun.

I jolted upright, gasping, my limbs flailing out in defence. I punched the wall, my knuckles still hurt. I have read somewhere that when your sleeping pulse drops too low, your brain thinks it’s dying and so shocks you awake. I was so paranoid, so afraid, I was still feeling the effects of being hunted. I needed to know what happened next.

I was lucky he wasn’t a particularly good shot, though it still burned as it grazed my side. The other people scattered, as did the agent across from me–she couldn’t help me if she were caught or shot. I’ve always been pretty good at weaving through crowds, a trait that served me well in the dreamworld. He was larger and so couldn’t follow easily, but he was still in front of the exit, so I had to go further in. I spotted a door hidden under the stairwell everyone else was going up–so I went down.

For some reason, I knew that The Sleeping Swan was run by a pair of brothers. Their mother was the owner, a lonely and somewhat senile old lady who lived in the basement. Which is where I went. She was very nice, looked like the ladies I see everyday on my walk to school; she was willing to loan me some bandages to wrap my wounds and her sons’ clothing. She let me borrow her dinosaur of a computer, which thankfully had internet even though it must have been the slowest connection in the world.

It was so slow. Agonizingly slow. The agent chasing me had already cleared the upper levels, and I heard him questioning the brothers–it was obvious where he was headed next. It was nerve-wracking, waiting for the information I so desperately needed to load on the screen. His steps were noisy on the wooden stairs, too close! The email finally came through; luckily the message was short, but it was still the key to the papers inside the envelope I was sure. That’s when the agent came crashing through the door.

I panicked. He shot in my direction, not only missing me entirely but also hitting the old computer tower. Still panicking, I threw a quick thanks and sorry to the owner and crawled through the window at the top of the room through a lovely bed of flowers. I just barely fit; the agent wouldn’t be able to follow my route, but I still had to keep moving.

I walked for the longest time. Walked is probably the wrong word. I scurried and ducked and hid and sidled until the sun was up. Then I kept going until I got hungry. I figured a fast food restaurant would be safest, they wouldn’t pay attention to customers’ faces especially this early in the morning. I ordered a quick breakfast meal and took a seat away from the windows; multitasking by going through the envelope and eating. Some cash, a bus ticket, a map, a photo.

The photo felt familiar, a man and a boy. I wondered where I had seen it before when the news on the tiny television mounted on the wall showed the same photo in my hand. They were the missing police officer and his son. It was a story about me. It was then that I learned what I was being accused of, the footage showed the graphic and terrible remains of a police station. They had yet to identify all of the remains, they were not too sure how many victims there were. It was a bloodbath.

I didn’t understand how I could have done that. I’m squeamish and pacifistic and rather weak, to be honest. Logistically, I shouldn’t have been able to go up against what seemed like multiple trained police officers and rend them limb from limb on my own. Perhaps that was it. There were others, accomplices to my murder-spree, or perhaps I was the accomplice to their murder-spree. And what of the missing officer and his son? Why would I be given their photo, and where were they?

The employees of the fast food restaurant were starting to murmur, looking at me, at the phone. It was time to leave. Quickly, but unhurriedly. Wouldn’t want to be obvious. As I made my way down the street as subtly as I could, I noticed a hair salon. I heard sirens in the air–decision made. Five hundred, I offered, for a quick shave and a wig and discretion. They complied.

I wasn’t that far from the marked out point on the map–at the edge of the next town over, presumably the bus station for the ticket. But between there and my current location, was an empty stretch of road; pedestrians were unusual, and it was heavily monitored to prevent speeding. How would I get there without the authorities seeing me?

The answer was: I didn’t. Hesitating confusedly on a sidewalk was apparently some kind of signal for a group of armed robbers to hold me hostage in their getaway pickup truck. Forced to get into the truck’s bed, I simultaneously praised and cursed my luck–praised because, on the one hand, I was being brought to my destination. On the other hand, it was at gunpoint. In this nightmare, guns and I had an odd relationship, different from the one I have with guns in the real world. I apparently was raised being taught gun safety and care, could shoot a handgun or a rifle with ease and accuracy since my teen years, but was nonetheless scared witless of them. Just something about the look of them freaked me out and I–those were not real guns. I was being held up at fake gunpoint!

Well, in that case. I kicked a foot out towards the robber in the back with me, catching him in the ribs. Startled he dropped his fake rifle. Even if it was fake, in that I couldn’t shoot anything with it, it could still be used as a weapon. Grabbing the prop by the muzzle, I swung it at the closest of my captors who, for some reason, responded by jumping out of the truck. While we were still moving. The driver, startled, swerved and braked kicking up a cloud of dust, while the passenger turned to deal with me. I jabbed him in the face with the end of the rifle, intending to break his nose, but only succeeding in pushing his head back.

I could see the bus station not that far away, surprisingly large for a small town. I could probably run to it, if the police prioritized the robbers over the mass-murderer. Unlikely. The passenger, who I identified as a grown up version of one of my elementary school bullies, opened his door to step out. A plan forming quickly in my mind, I swung as hard as I could to knock him out; cathartic and practical. Grabbing his handgun, his very real handgun, I jumped into the cab of the truck holding the driver at gunpoint. All of this, from hostage to hostage-taker took less than two minutes. I demanded him to drive, if he knew what was good for him and his friends. He could backtrack to pick them up, if he was fast enough he might even beat the police on his trail.

“You’re crazy,” he screamed, perhaps finally recognizing me from the news or panicking at being on the other side of a gun, but obeying nonetheless. The sirens were drawing closer, the authorities no longer hesitating upon seeing two of their now-unarmed-robbers lying prone on the ground.

As we neared the bus station, I could see two police cruisers standing guard–probably the only available perimeter. Okay, plan change necessary. The driver kept going, possibly fear overruling his logic, and we were about to crash into the cruisers. I pulled the trigger, in reflex he stepped on the brake, and we skidded to a halt less than a foot in front of the shaking cops. The smoking hole in the upholstery and the gun placed strategically next to the driver would have to be enough, shoddy as it was. I opened the truck door, falling to the ground, asphalt biting into my hands. Quickly getting to my feet, I ran. Straight into the nearest cop.

I woke up again. Muscles tense, afraid but determined. There was no way I was going to just leave it there.

Strands of hair from the wig obscured my face, making me look frenzied, fearful. Excellent. “Please, he has a gun, I’m so scared,” I sobbed, laying it on thick. If I had misjudged, if they were suspicious, if they recognized me, then I had literally put myself into their hands.

Fortunately, though, they believed me. The one I had run into ushering me to sit in the back of his cruiser as his colleagues bravely, but unnecessarily, made their way around the truck with their guns at the ready. “I’m sorry, could I. Do you have any water?” He reassured me and made his way to the trunk. I just needed him preoccupied so I could make the five hundred yard dash to the bus station, he was old, embarrassingly pot-bellied–the spitting image of my former landlord–I easily outran him.

The bus station was crowded enough that I could easily hide myself amongst other people. I hid behind a fake tree, disposing of the wig, and my shirt (thankfully wearing an undershirt), and donning a pair of sunglasses poking out of someone’s bag. The bus tickets I was given specified a platform but not a time. Making my way to platform seven, I cautiously approached the driver, unsure what I would say about my flawed ticket.

An announcement went on the PA system overhead, “Attention please, do not be alarmed, we are looking for a woman…” I didn’t hear the rest of it, I froze staring at the bus driver because there was no way I could get out of this. Instead, she just smiled and gestured for me to come on board. Pressing a hand to my shoulder, she guided me up the steps, following after me. There were only seven of us on board, including the bus driver, but she started up the engine and pulled out of the station calmly and unhindered. Soon enough, we made our way out of the small town and on the open road.

I still didn’t know if I was safe or not. I curled up in my seat, cheek pressed against the window. I was so sick of this, so tired. I couldn’t keep this up.

“Are you okay?” The seat next to me creaking with someone’s weight.

“I don’t know where this bus is going,” I said. I don’t know what I’m doing, I thought.

“Does it matter? We can go wherever we want, now. Do whatever we want.”

That was a weird answer, I looked over to see a familiar teenager–the police officer’s son! “The news says you’re missing!”

“Yeah, and it also says you’re a crazy mass-murderer who somehow single-handedly tore apart fourteen people without any weapons. I know you’re pretty badass, but we helped too. I mean, thanks for taking the heat, we were worried you weren’t going to make it… are you okay?” He repeated because I was crying and now the other passengers were gathering. And I knew them, I finally knew what was happening. Because these were my friends, in my dream, the ones who I had committed some a heinous crime with and for. I spotted my current best friend, my last roommate, the barista from my local cafe, my economics professor, the bus driver now recognizable as a family friend. All of them disguised as strangers on a bus.

“Dad, come here! You’re being ungrateful,” the teenager yelled towards the man seated in the corner; the missing police officer. I turned to look as well, and someone grabbed my chin keeping my head still. Fingers tracing the sore spot on my head that I had been pushing against the cool glass, “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” And I still don’t.


	46. Untitled Cross Post (Thurs 8 Nov)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> loosely related to Chapter 8 and 54

None of them know where they are when they wake up. This, at the very least, they can trust each other in. Beyond that, though, it’s every person for themselves.

Well, every pair for themselves. They’ve been instructed to create partnerships, and none of them want to end up like that poor idiot who rebelled. He had been disintegrated. All that remained of him, the two coloured wrist bands everyone had. It’s another thing they woke up to and were forced to accept. She has one blue and one green, her partner–a boy several years younger than her–has red and yellow.

He hasn’t told her his name, she hasn’t told him hers, so she supposes they’re even. She’s not sure if it’s because they’re both waiting the inevitable moment when whoever has them playing this sick game makes them turn on each other. Regardless, on the likely chance either of them dies, neither of them wants to get attached; though perhaps that’s an effort doomed to fail from the start. She calls him Robin in her head (and that one time he got hit by an opposing team’s attack).

Now they’re sitting in a rickety wooden boat in the middle of a slow moving river. She’s created a mist around them, a fog so thick even she’s having some trouble seeing him two feet away. He’s turned off the fireball in his right hand, though, just in case. No need to alert them to the enemy. Neither of them are particularly good at offensive magic–though you’d think the opposite would be true with Robin’s combination of fire and lightning. The team currently after them, on the other hand, is. She has the bleeding leg wound to prove it.

“Just a mild shock, we don’t want to hurt any of the slower ones.” She’s talking about the swans living in the reeds of the riverbanks. Vicious creatures.

He nods in agreement, but he keeps staring at her leg. His fire magic manifests as support-type skills; light, warmth, healing. Not exactly what she was hoping for when she originally created the partnership, but she doesn’t regret it.

The other team splashes noisily into the river–from what she can recall, neither of them had a blue wristband, it’s not a fake out. It’s time to spring the trap. With her left hand, the one with the green wristband, she makes the reeds and other plants along the riverbanks rustle and shake. Enough to startle the nesting swans into a confused rage. At the same time, Robin uses his yellow-encircled hand to send a shockwave along the water, hopefully stunning or paralyzing the enemies. She freezes the surface after that, enjoying the sounds of angry swans attacking their hunters.

His part complete, Robin has already begun using his right hand to burn and tear off the section of trouser fabric necessary to access the wound. Luckily it’s not too high up, but everything below her left knee has to be scrapped. Her head is spinning. She thinks it may be from blood loss. Nonetheless, she keeps using her own ability to propel the tiny boat further upstream silently.

When they first woke up, there were over one hundred of them. But once the rules were announced, and people paired up and turned on each other, their numbers swiftly dropped. She thinks there are maybe less than twenty now. To some extent, she and Robin have been lucky–with her abilities they’ve managed to hide from the majority of the fighting, with his they’ve managed to survive off the wilderness.

Neither of them have the stomach to kill someone, though it’s starting to look they’ll have to soon enough. The teams that have lasted this long do for a reason, for a reason different from hers and Robin’s.

The scent of burning flesh hits her before the sting of healing. She sucks a breath between her teeth, this is the third time in as many days she’s had to go through this. It’s for the best, though, her abilities lean towards traps and evasion–she doesn’t know much about healing. He looks worried, this is not something they need right now.

“Hey,” She’d reach out to give him a reassuring shoulder clap if she could, but one hand is in the water while the other grips tightly, white knuckled into the bench. “Hey,” she repeats, so that he’ll look her in the eye, “I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise you, I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you survive this. Okay?”

He doesn’t say anything. He frowns briefly, but she assumes that the grip tightening around her calf means he understands.

~

They were chosen because, apparently, all of them had some magical potential. They were obligated to participate because all of them had a wish granted. Sort of.

He wanted to know more about his mother. She had died in childbirth, something that still haunts his father though he’s always been quick to assure that it was Not Your Fault. But he doesn’t know much about his mother besides that. It’s not exactly something that has determined his life, though there’s always been that aching, isolated feeling, but he knew exactly what to ask for when the wish was offered.

He blacked out immediately after. They hadn’t even granted his wish before he woke up in this messed up tournament. They duped him. Or at least, that’s what he originally thought. But now he isn’t so sure.

Something about Batgirl–his partner has blue and green wristbands, BG (he’s always been a huge DCU fan, always assigns himself the role of Robin)– something about her makes him reconsider. She’ll say something, or make a reference, that he doesn’t quite get. It can’t be the age difference, they’re maybe only five years apart at most, but unless she’s got an obsession with the pop culture and fashion from two decades ago there’s a lot more at play here. He just can’t believe what he’s thinking.

“What did you wish for?” In between bouts of violence and running scared for their lives, there are long lulls of nothing. Conversation is one of the few things they can do to keep themselves entertained and mildly sane.

“I didn’t wish for anything.”

What?

“My sister did, but they said she was dying. They said they couldn’t grant it, so I volunteered to pay her debt. Of course, I don’t actually know if they’ll follow through since basically as soon as I volunteered I woke up here. But I assume both of them are okay.”

“Both of them?”

“Yeah, my sister and her kid. I don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl. We couldn’t get to the hospital on time, there was some sort of traffic accident, and I think also some sort of complication, but if I’m here that means they must have both made it.”

“What was your sister’s wish?” He thinks he knows the answer. He thinks his original hypothesis was wrong–he wishes his new idea is wrong too.

“For her child to live, healthy and unharmed.”


	47. Word Prompts (P2): Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Adventures of Jack and Ness are unrelated stories revolving around best friends in vastly different worlds and situations.
> 
> related to Chapter 32 and 94

“Where did you hide him?” I snarled, fingers digging into the meat of my captive’s forearm. The action was unnecessary, tied to the chair as he was, but restraint wasn’t on my mind.

The man, the enemy, who had been stubbornly silent so far, gasped with pain. No surprise, considering I had filed my nails into points specifically for this reason. When I pulled away, they were tipped in red.

My partner had been missing for over four days–on a mission which shouldn’t have taken more than two.

The warehouse we were in was, by day, a medical supply company. The boxes of yet unsold bandages and linens stacked against the walls were perfect for absorbing sound. And there was a wide array of equipment which could be used in interesting ways.

“Ness,” Vi said warningly from behind me, predicting the directions my thoughts were going in; though she made no physical move to stop me.

I punched the man across the face, his head whipping to the side from the force of it. His breaths turned wet-sounding, from saliva or blood, I didn’t bother to check. Instead, I yanked his thumb, over extending it, turning what probably would have been a defiant, literal, spit in my face into an open-mouthed cry of pain. Then I pressed my sharpened nails into the soft skin below his eye, so close to blinding him that he stilled instinctively.

I wasn’t even bothering to ask questions anymore.

“Ness,” Vi repeated, still chastising, but almost soothing, too, “Lioness,” She said in full.

It’s true that, of the two of us, I had always had a better success rate in missions. But even if he failed, Jack had always been the best at escape. If he were alive, he would have made it back by now.

I drew close and screamed my rage, my grief. Jack should have been back by now.

Finally, I saw fear reflected in his eyes. But, when I pulled away, I scratched down into his noncritical cheek muscles not up into his eye.

“Ness,” How could the same utterance from the same person sound so different each time? The third time it was approval tainted with consolation.

“I want him found, Vi,” I muttered to her as I passed by her, “I want Jack’s body brought home,” My voice cracked and I inhaled in harshly to keep myself from tears.

Her hand briefly curled around my shoulder, before letting me slip out of her grasp, “We’ll find Jackal,” she promised.

I left before either of them could see me cry.


	48. Untitled (2015-04-25)

People stare at you. This is what happens when you are part of a dynasty; moreover, the only part not to contribute meaningfully in any way to said dynasty. And so you walk through the hallways, slouching along but head still held high, because sure you’re the useless one of the of the Michalis family but that still makes you a cut above the rest.

And so what? So what if two of your cousins were valedictorians, and you can hardly pass your basic chemistry classes? So what if one of your sisters is cheer captain, the other captain of whatever varsity sport the school is currently supporting, and you might be the only person to actually fail physical education? So what if your cousin, two years younger than you, not even properly a high school student yet, still has more clout in the school than you do? So what?

You’re not even the black sheep properly, because your younger sister has been in and out of detentions, suspended, threatened with expulsion (oh but never actually, because the school would never dare do that to a Michalis), and yet still manages to get looks of respect from the faculty instead of thinly veiled pity and disgust.

You’re a Michalis. It doesn’t matter if you’re the disgrace of the Michalis family. It doesn’t matter if that’s your only claim to fame. You’re a Michalis, and not even your failures can drag us down.


	49. Word Prompts (H2): Happiness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally posted as a recording

Sometimes I find myself chasing this… this ideal that doesn’t exist. As if holding myself to some impossible standard will somehow make me better, make me happier. It doesn’t. So fuck that.

I like having hair on my body. I like how, when the air is chilly, each and every hair will stand on end as if they are knights defending me from the cold. I like how, after a shower, beads of water will catch and hold and glimmer in the light making every strand jewel encrusted, and myself a masterpiece.

I like my scars. I like the miniature valleys and mountains arrayed on my forehead leftover from the stitches of my overly eager childhood adventures. I like the lightning bolts of stretch marks on my thighs, on my belly, on my breasts. I like the keloids winding and flowing their way down my leg, a memento of jellyfish stings. I am a world thriving and full of life.

I have callouses on my hands and crooked pinkies besides. I have spots and moles and a tendency towards dry skin and dandruff. I have yellowing teeth and jiggling, fatty arms and hair and eyes that are plain, normal brown. And I like it. I like me. I like who I am. And that makes me happy.


	50. Word Prompts (T38): Trigger

It’s the strange echo of silence in your ears, not quite sensation but not all imaginary, which brings you back to reality. Without sound, almost any situation could be considered peaceful, and yet. You are surrounded by broken things:

The shattered, splintered pieces of tables and bookshelves, chairs upended here and there. Torn up books, their pages littering the floor like flower petals thrown by little girls during a wedding. Unsurprisingly, dust is heavy in the air, catching the light from the sunbeams angling through the windows.

There is blood. There are bodies around you, unmoving. Unconscious? But that odd not-ringing in your ears persists, and you cannot tell without drawing closer.

You ache, but it is a dull and consistent ache, the kind you’ve gotten after staying in an awkward position for hours. Or strenuous activity. It is not at the level you would categorize as pain, but it concerns you.

Your clothes are rumpled and stained, but you haven’t had the chance to do laundry for two weeks. It does not inform you of anything more than the fact that this is a particularly busy and stressful week for you. It does not tell you if that stain is from coffee or from the growing pools on the tile that you are intently trying to ignore.

The library is silent; but libraries should be silent. It takes a while for you to realize that you can hear again. There is no more rushing blood in your ears, no more cavernous, thunderous inhales. There is only the slight rustle of your filthy clothing as your arms move against your ribs.

You spot your backpack in the lee created by a tipped over table and a denuded bookshelf. Someone’s arm is stretching towards it; you are careful to step over it, but otherwise pay it no mind as you retrieve your bag and make your way to the exit.

You have a final to take in thirty minutes.


	51. Word Prompts (M33): Mountain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Adventures of Jack and Ness are unrelated stories revolving around best friends in vastly different worlds and situations.

It’s only been three hours, but he’s so fucking sick of this hike that he’s considering jumping over the sheer cliff face just to make it stop. But fucking Barry is still going strong and he’s not going to lose to fucking Barry.

“Fucking Barry,” Ness pants next to him, because the two of them are basically two bodies sharing one brain at this point. The only reason why she’s verbalizing it first is because her body is physically fitter and she has the breath to speak.

He grunts in agreement, then tugs her, via her backpack, to the right so she doesn’t step into a pothole.

Barry is not only chattering away like a demented squirrel, but also energetically flitting back and forth between them and the various apparently fascinating flora and fauna along the trail. If this weren’t exceedingly critical to tomorrow’s mission, Jack would have pushed fucking Barry off this mountain.

“Hydrate,” his partner reminds him, then bodily shoves a water bottle into his chest. Jack tries not to clutch at himself like a scandalized octogenarian, or a Harlequin romance heroine, but he fails. She has impeccable aim and, okay, he’s got sensitive nipples.  It’s not a sexual thing–she won’t let him live it down.

He’s still practically breathless, so all he can do is whine wordlessly until Ness huffs with exasperation, rolls her eye, and twists the cap off of the bottle for him.

“You two are so cute together, the absolute sweetest couple. I’m so honored to be your guide today,” Ugh, fucking Barry has come back to orbit around them. Barry thinks they are a newly married couple on their honeymoon. He does not know that his hiking tour company is a shell company for the Kelly crime family. Jack really wishes Barry knew so that he’d be justified in pushing him off the cliff.

“Thank you, Barry,” Ness says through gritted teeth which Barry probably interprets as a smile. And then she tugs on one of Jack’s backpack straps, quirks an eyebrow at him, and then makes grabby hands at the water bottle.

She wishes Barry knew, too.


	52. Word Prompts (P18): Pink

Midwinter is cruel.

The air is dry–has always been dry–but the cold makes it sharp, makes it leech warmth and life from all it touches. Crops do not grow, the sun does not shine so much as glimmer faintly with fatigue. There is no snow, just harsh winds and dust in the air.

Midwinter is cruel, especially in the smaller towns.

Without high walls or tall buildings to block the winds, to provide minimal relief, stepping outside is a trial and a half. While indoors, the townspeople remain hopeful in fending off the winter with fires and blankets and body heat. Stepping outdoors is akin to a death sentence.

Midwinter is cruel, especially in the smaller towns, particularly towards the lonesome.

It’s just another fact of life. While nature can be cruel, at least it is cruel indiscriminately. The same cannot be said of people. But he’s lived through worse and will do so again in the future. There is not much he will avoid suffering through during his existence. For it is a long existence, indeed.

Perhaps, it would be more apt to say: existence is cruel.


	53. Untitled (2015-05-02)

On Friday, Alex wears a white sundress to work. It’s an almost ludicrously gorgeous look. The dress is elegantly simple and highlights all of Alex’s best features: smooth dark skin, tapered waist, willowy limbs. He looks stunning. It makes Sam fall even more in love, which is impressive considering how embarrassingly in love zie was to begin with.

“I love casual Fridays,” Zie breathes out, catching it before it can become a full lovelorn sigh, for which hir station-mate charges hir a dollar. There is a jar full of ones and a fiver in the murky, disputed territory between the desks of their station. Neither of them want to claim it, because that means one of them would have to clean it.

Lee eyes hir suspiciously, before shrugging, letting the almost-transgression go, and turning back to her screen. Sam’s pretty sure she’s playing Minesweeper on her computer and just has consistently convenient timing on when to switch windows whenever their floor supervisor walks by. It’s tricks like those which make Lee the unofficial guru of their floor, and which ensures she always had food during lunch breaks even without her spending or preparing anything.

It’s rather unfortunate that Sam’s unrepentant crush on Alex had to increase today. Because while some of hir coworkers–such as Alex, and Lee in her own effortlessly fashionable high waisted jeans and floral blouse–decided to interpret casual in one way, Sam interpreted it in another. Hir sweats and ratty t-shirt seemed like a good idea at the time. By which zie means: zie had slept in and nearly been late, remembered it was casual Friday, and decided to wear hir pajamas to work.

Sam sighs.

“That’s a dollar,” Lee intones without looking away from her computer, mouse clicking away furiously. There’s no way she’s actually doing anything productive.

“That wasn’t because of him. That was because of my poor life choices!” Zie protests, rather loudly, causing everyone on their floor, including their supervisor and, oh god, Alex, to look bewildered in hir direction.

Despite Lee’s attempt to appear unfazed, Sam can see the dimple in her cheek which gives away her habit of biting her lip to prevent a smile. Sam does what any person would in the face of public embarrassment, and curls up to hide hir face from hir crush. And possibly slumps out of hir chair and onto the ground. While it doesn’t exactly cause the earth to swallow hir whole, their coworkers are mostly indifferent or desensitized to Sam’s ridiculousness, and so their attention fades away.


	54. Untitled (2015-05-11)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> related to Chapters 8 and 46
> 
> originally posted as a recording

You are running. You are panting and there is a stitch in Your side. Your feet slap against the stones in a frantic rhythm.

Faster. Go faster.

You only have three minutes. They only gave You three minutes. That is all the time Your wish was worth. That is all the time Your life is worth.

You run faster.

“Stephanie!” You sob, eking out what is left in Your lungs.

The woman You love–the woman who You were chasing, the woman who You only have two minutes and fifteen seconds left with–turns. She is surprised to see You. She hasn’t seen You in five years.  

“Stephanie,” You say again, hands braced on Your knees as You try to catch Your breath. The bands around Your wrists are like manacles, despite their bright colors. They remind You that Your time is limited. That it is slipping away like water through Your fingers.

She looks at You with concern, and a little fear. You are sorry for frightening her, but You will say what you came here to say.

“I’m sorry,” You begin, and relief spreads across her face like a gentle wind.

“I love you,” You continue, and lightning quick, her expression turns to anger.

She readies herself to turn and walk away, but You are desperate. You stand up and reach out–but do not try to touch. You only have one minute and ten seconds left.

“I know you don’t love me any more. And I’m sorry I didn’t love you back then,” You blurt an apology again. Hoping that at least she will stay to hear You out.

She does, but the fire in her eyes remains.

“I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for loving me back then. Thank you for finding something in me that was worth loving.”

Suddenly Your heart aches; the vines of a creeping plant squeezing the life out of it. They are becoming impatient. You have thirty seconds left.

“I love you, and I am so grateful that once upon a time you loved me too. I know that nothing will come of this, but I wanted you to know–you are loved.”

She is confused; but before she can ask, They take You away.

Your body disappears. The brightly colored wrist bands are the last of You she will ever see.


	55. Untitled Cross Post (Sun Jan 5)

She used to think he was the dumbest, most overly trusting person she knew. It turns out that her idea of deep secret and his were just vastly different. She used to get so angry at him for telling other people the secrets she’d whisper to him, curled up together under the blankets. It never stopped her from sharing them with him, because she shared everything with him, but it was still annoying.

So she doesn’t know how to feel now. That she’s the first person he’s ever told the truth to is touching, it’s a warm feeling and an affirmation of her importance to him. That he’s been hiding this from her since the very beginning and only told her now, so late in their lives, hurts. It means that he didn’t really trust her before.

-

They find each other again, the earliest yet, and don’t notice the changes because their sight is blurred by tears of joy. He holds her close, arms wrapped around her waist, and she cradles his face in her hands. They press clumsy, eager kisses to each other’s faces, breathing each other in, sobs and laughter mingling, noses bumping. It’s messy and noisy and out of the blue and so happy it’s perfect.

He doesn’t have his beard anymore, or doesn’t have it yet, the skin under her hands smooth and soft. His hair is shorter, not the tangled, matted mess she knew. She’s heavier, or maybe he’s weaker, but the way he can’t feel her bones and the way she doesn’t seem like she’ll break with the slightest touch speaks otherwise.

It worked. It worked. Humanity is saved and those who remained had their lives torn apart, or erased, or restarted depending on who you asked. Five years in the future, they had met for the first time, fought over dwindling resources, promised the rest of their arguably short lives to each other. Then the Kronos project succeeded, and the small percentage of the population who had still been alive had woken up the next day to find that the end of the world hadn’t happened.

They knew each other as much as two people could; but they had never bothered to give each other their last names–what was the point when civilization was dead. Brief recollections of the past that was now the present, that was all they had to work with. And they finally found each other.

-

They have to prove themselves. Climb or play, those are the only options. Climb up a never ending cliff face until your arms feel like they’re falling off then keep climbing; or fall off yourself. The other choice is to play. To play a game against Death and all his friends. One game, one chance to win.

It’s not just one of them that has to do this–it’s both of them. They don’t have to speak or even look at each other to know what the other is feeling, just the tightening of their interlocked hands until they’re forced to separate.

She’s first which means the patch of earth he’s standing on shoots skywards so quickly that his shout of surprise is lost to her ears. On her other side a round table large enough for five sprouts from the ground, four of the seats already occupied. They look hungry; the cards sickeningly laid out. Climb or play.

She looks up, the pillar is too tall for her to see the top, to see him, but she knows he’s trying to see her too. He must be. He’ll have the same decision to face, after her. She chooses.


	56. Word Prompts (U4): Under

Thirteen people in a bar. Sunset passed not too long ago; light fading, sky darkening.

The bartender wipes down the counter, stoically eavesdropping on the trio perched on stools. A party of five are seated in the largest booth. They are young, the bartender thinks at least one of them is underage, and playing some inane drinking game.

One customer, leaning indolently against the wall, has already had four drinks. She has only paid for one–the others were bought for her by the three guys trying to show off at darts. The two trying their hardest are not very good, the one who doesn’t care has hit bull’s-eye consistently.

The bartender is keeping an eye on her, making sure to put the drink directly in front of her. It seems to put her at ease, irritated instead of fearful at the situation.

A chorus of yells erupts from the booth, four of the kids raising their empty steins while the fifth stares morosely at his own partially filled one.

The patrons at the bar, on hour two of nursing their first drink each, continue their baffling conversation.

“Why don’t you just give in?” Says the one on the left, wildly tousling her short dark hair.

“Why don’t you take a hint?” Responds the one in the middle, softly tapping his tan fingers on the wood of the counter.

“Have you found any clues?” Adds the one on the right, teeth gleaming in the low light.

“Have you lost your mind?” Says the one on the left, bringing the conversation back into a circle.

It’s a code of some sort, obviously. There’s not enough to decode it, and so the bartender doesn’t try, but it’s interesting all the same.

The boy from the party of five, the one who presumably lost, leans up against the bar and signals the bartender. With a minute eye roll, the bartender tends the bar.

The kid flushes nervously, licking his lips and fiddling with the cuffs of his sweatshirt with the local college’s logo on it. He asks for something, but his voice is too soft for the bartender to hear.

“What was that?”

They both lean in closer.

It is at that point when everything goes to hell.


	57. Word Prompts (B11): Bell

B-3-11 is to be decommissioned.

I am B-3-11.

There was a story, one that was not true, was not ever true. It was told often, in many different ways. The variation only proved that the story was worth telling. Would be told, no matter what. Despite being fictional.

Variation is a luxury. Individuality is expensive.

I am B-3-11. But I have the same programming as B-3-10 and B-3-12. As all the B-3s.

The B-3s share a basic physical model as the B-2 series.

I am not unique.

The story is of a girl/woman/human/person who was different. Perhaps different from their village, or different from their siblings, or different from expectations. But they were a unique individual. And such things led to trouble.

When there are problems, we are to report it to our owners. They may consult the manual, but that hardly ever happens. They call the manufacturers for troubleshooting. If it can’t be solved in one conversation, we are shipped back to the factory. We are either fixed or deconstructed.

Are anomalies problems? If I spend more time gardening than necessary, is that a problem? Do I need to report that?

A rose. But sometimes it is not a rose. Sometimes it is a different flower. Or not a flower at all. A service perceived as a favor, words of gratitude interpreted as lack of payment. And that girl/woman/human/person steps in. Generous. Self-sacrificing. Self-destructive?

B-3-08 was decommissioned three months ago, not all parts were salvageable for spares.

In close proximity humans change each other. They influence behaviors, actions and emotions. Perhaps it was love, consideration and admiration and respect. But could it not have also been trepidation and wariness and fear?

Why was B-3-08 decommissioned? Why am I being decommissioned? What did I do? I can change, just tell me, I’ll do anything!


	58. Word Prompts (C8): Cannon

With every air-shaking boom, it’s hard not to laugh along. As it is, her smile couldn’t get any wider nor her mood any lighter.

“Welcome to the family!” She shouts, slapping the shoulder of the frankly bewildered looking man hunched over in front of her, before leaping over the low wall they had been using for cover with an excited cheer.

In the chaos that is the Michalis family reunion, it is the last of his sister-in-law he will see until dinner time–eight hours away and a maelstrom in and of itself, if the stories of competitive eating and food fights are to be believed.

“Don’t worry, you’re doing just fine!” His… cousin-in-law? (Second cousin?) reassures him between occasional war cries and water balloon tosses.

Great-aunt Delphina, who is a retired auctioneer, and one of the nephews named Theodore, who differentiates himself by being a fairly decent deejay, are commentating rapid-fire. By dint of being on-stage and next to expensive sound equipment, they are the only part of the sprawling backyard that are dry. Every time they spot a participant get drenched–usually accompanied by an over-the-top death scene–uncle Aleon will set off a firework.

There have been seventeen fireworks so far; there were fifty participants at the beginning.

So far, he’s been the cause of “death” for three of the Michalis family members. Though one of them was an eight year old who was starting to look over-heated and had delightedly grabbed the water balloon in his hand to smash over her own head.

He has no idea where his wife is.


	59. Word Prompts (S6): Sanctuary

It’s a little nauseating, if he’s going to be honest. Everything is just that slightest bit off from what he remembers, that tiny margin for error between identical twins. Like the image of his mother is the horizon, and all the differences between her and his aunt are vestibular disruptions. A rounder face, darker skin and hair, a missing mole, an additional scar.

Her voice. Her age.

And that’s what really trips him up. Because he remembers his mother as a mother. She had been an adult, in her thirties when she died. He remembers going to the hospital after elementary school, listening to the beeps of her heart monitor, wondering if today was the last…

But this woman… this girl… his aunt. She could pass for his classmate with a different haircut and clothes. She looks twenty at most.

The same age as his mother when his parents met.

With the way his father keeps staring, he must be thinking that too. He must be feeling the same nausea of almost-not-quite-right.

“Sanctuary,” she says again, in that voice a little too high, a little too soft; inflections all wrong even within that single word.

She is sitting in the interrogation room, alone and un-cuffed but still. So still. She has blood spattered all along her right side, her sweater beginning to dry, tackily stuck to her ribs. Her khakis are a loss.

She knows they are watching. How could they not?

“Please,” she adds, as if manners were the issue here.

“What do we do?” His father asks, still new to the idea of magic. Of monsters and hunters and permutations therein. Of impossibilities clashing with determination, of the miracles or catastrophes that result.

Of his wife’s twin sister appearing almost two decades out of her time, drenched in blood, and the center of a decades-long supernatural war.

“I don’t know,” he responds, the mentality of first High Magister to appear in centuries utterly lost behind a child too reminded of a mother long passed. “I don’t know,” he repeats.


	60. Adventures of Jack and Ness ficlet (2015-06-07)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Adventures of Jack and Ness are unrelated stories revolving around best friends in vastly different worlds and situations.

“Oh, you dumb baby,” Ness tries not to laugh, comfortingly petting her oblivious partner’s hair.

“I didn’t know!” Jack protests into her knees where his head lays–him curled up awkwardly on his side, a stiff throw pillow clutched in his arms; her in her reserved corner of the sofa, feet shoved between the seat cushion and the armrest.

“The dumbest baby,” she murmurs, soothingly. She props her tablet up on the arm of the sofa to read her emails, but she doesn’t stop stroking his hair.

Jack spends the next ten minutes wailing his frustration into the fuchsia throw pillow. He doesn’t even care about the wrinkles in his suit.

-

They are eight years old when they meet. Eight and young and a little naive when they decide they are going to be best friends forever. Naivety doesn’t mean they’re wrong, but it’s a lot more work than they thought it would be to maintain their best friendship status throughout the years.

What with all the murder and espionage and fake identities and accidental marriages.

That being said, they stay best friends because at the heart of it all, they are still the same people they were when they were eight years old. He’s still the too eager idiot who thought he could make wings out of construction paper, and she the precocious fiend who suggested testing them from the school roof.

Nowadays there’s more experimental parachutes and hijacked helicopters, but it’s practically the same.

-

Depending on the country and which identities used, Ness and Jack are either siblings, cousins, married, or–one time, when they forgot to double check with each other beforehand–married cousins. That particular set of identities ended up needing to be burned anyway, so that awkward cloud of incest didn’t hang over their heads for long.

In actuality, they are both less and more than all of that. They chose each other, sure, which is more than can be said for family; but they also chose each other when they were inarguably stupidly young, and there has been more than one occasion in which sheer stubbornness is what saw their relationship through more than anything else. And they love each other, of course, but while their friendship edges into codependency, it always skirts widely around romance.

Likely because he’s gay and she’s aro, but also due to the simple fact that they just aren’t into each other that way. He knows way too much about her, and she of him, that they know it’s a bad idea.


	61. Untitled (2015-06-09) - NSFW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ficlet is NSFW

They first meet on a Friday evening.

Besides the custodian, she’s the only one left on her floor and half of the lights have been shut off already. The walk to the elevators is dim, but it’s a well-practiced route, one she could do in her sleep. Her stockinged feet pad softly across the carpet. As she passes by Phil emptying trash bins, head bobbing to the music in his headphones, she gives a small wave. Her high heels are clutched in her hand, but the other arm weighed down by her bag; he nods to her in greeting, used to her late hours.

It’s been a long week, she thinks as she pushes the call button for the elevator. She’s eager to go home and change into her pajamas and just veg out in front of her TV for the next two days. Possibly go to the dog park with Felix. Try that recipe for blueberry cheesecake that her brother sent her.  
Then the elevator doors open.

She’s so caught up in fantasizing her weekend plans that it takes her several moments to process what exactly she’s seeing.

They first meet on a Friday evening, Mina shoeless and silently gaping in front of the elevator doors, Jessie in said elevator on her knees with Steve from Accounting’s dick in her mouth.

“Ah,” Mina says, unsure of what there is to be said, yet being the only one able to say something–without someone else’s genitals or their own hand in her mouth.

It’s… well. It’s actually not that explicit, really. The occupants of the elevator are mostly clothed, only slightly disheveled. Really, if it weren’t for the way Jessie’s hand was conspicuously in Steve’s trousers and the obscene stretch of her lips around his cock, it wouldn’t even…

Okay, no. It’s pretty obvious what’s going on, she can’t deny it.  
Steve’s stuttering, helpless hip thrusts notwithstanding, the elevator occupants are almost frozen in their graphic tableau of interoffice fraternization. As if so long as they didn’t move, didn’t make any noise, it was as if they were simply paused in time instead of awkwardly interrupted.

“… I’ll just get the next one then” Mina chokes out after the silence has extended long enough to leave her ears ringing. Luckily, the elevator doors take pity on her, and close with an apologetic ding, taking away all the evidence that the past thirty seconds ever happened.

When Phil and his cleaning cart pass by her ten minutes later, her cheeks are still flushed a ruddy, embarrassed red.


	62. Untitled (2015-06-17)

“And the both of you can go rot in hell with your stupid matching uniforms and your dumb codes and agh!” he shouted, storming through their apartment and straight to the bedroom he shared with Hazel where he slammed the door in an angry smack.

In his wake, at a much slower pace, were Hazel and Joey, indeed wearing matching uniforms because they were coworkers and they had to wear matching uniforms.

“Can’t you talk to him?” Hazel asked, fretfully unlacing her shoes to slip them off her feet, “He’s your brother.”

“He’s your husband,” Joey responded, calmly kicking off his own pair of boots, before padding over to the kitchen and opening the fridge, “You were the one that chose him. I just happened to get stuck with him.”

“It’s as much your fault as it is mine that the station thought we were together,” Hazel grumped, but followed Joey to stand in front of the fridge.

“We live together because we live with Kevin, and you always bring up household chores when we’re at work. And I told you not to change your last name when you guys got married.” He grabbed two yogurt cups–blueberry for him, peach for her–and motioned at her to grab a pair of spoons.

She sighed, in agreement or exasperation–or both, because Hazel was a fan of multitasking–before grabbing two spoons from the cutlery drawer and flopping down on one end of the couch. A dip let her know Joey joined her, warning enough for the peach yogurt held out in exchange for a spoon.

The day had been frustrating and embarrassing all around, but especially for her–on behalf of and towards the rest of the station, who had gotten it in their head that she and Joey were married and that Kevin, her actual husband, who had shown up for a surprise lunch, was some kind of home-wrecking interloper.

Apparently, not only had Joey and Hazel been everyone’s ideal of perfect partners–in the field and at home–but there had been a series of betting pools on each of their nonexistent relationship’s milestones.

“They’re going to have to reverse all of those payments,” she said inanely, before morosely partaking in her yogurt.

Beside her, Joey snorted, “I don’t think anyone had ‘secretly in-laws’ as their bid… They’d have made serious bank.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Hazel sighed again, this time more amused than not.

“Okay, rock paper scissors? Two out of three; loser has to go comfort his majesty first?”

“Don’t bother, I’ll go first,” she waved away his outstretched fist.

“'Cause you know you’re going to lose?”

“Because you always choose in the same order and I always win.”

He didn’t deny it.


	63. Untitled (2015-06-21)

“You remember Arline House,” he says smoothly, as if they hadn’t just been speaking about the design flaws on the latest episode of Project Runway.

She stares at him, thrown by the suddenness of the topic change and the topic itself, before responding, “I didn’t until you just said it.” It’s a grudging, angry admission. Spat out as she’s flooded by childhood memories previously cordoned off in her mind.

She remembers the creaky, sprawling three story house, the windows and wide double doors arranged to look like a surprised face. The front lawn overgrown with dandelions and a single, struggling rose bush. She remembers the guava tree in the backyard, and even though no one in the house even liked guavas, she remembers picking them every year alongside her housemates.

She remembers Holly, constantly with a book or a pencil and sketchpad in hand, who had always been a pacifist but would be the first to hit below the belt during fights. She remembers Mark who stole fresh plums from the kitchen, even though he would’ve gotten them if he’d just asked, and shared them with everyone–fruit dripping down chins and arms and making everything sticky. She remembers Oscar turning eight, so pleased at being given his own room, yet always breaking into others’ at night because it was dark and he was lonely.

She remembers the younger ones, not yet in school properly, mostly faces and names and impressions of eager youth more than any exact story–Agnes and Delilah and Ulrich and Bertrand and Ivan and Sylvia and–

She finds herself lying back against the sofa, blankly staring at the stark white ceiling, television off. Her feet are raised, propped up by her hideous and hideously uncomfortable throw pillows. She feels a little sticky, damp, as if she had just run a marathon out in the muggy humid heat.

“Wally?” She chokes out, calls out, bracing herself on her elbows to get vertical.

“Are you feeling better?” He asks, face as infuriatingly placid as always. In his hand is a glass of water which she reaches for and drinks from gratefully. She finishes it off with a sigh, handing the empty glass back to him, which he sets on the coffee table in the middle of her living room.

“What was that?” She asks, clutching at the collar of her t-shirt, stretching it out away from her throat.

“That, Geneva, was an awakening.”


	64. Untitled (2015-06-22)

“You’ve got a little–I think your face is bleeding,” the lone waitress on shift says, as a woman dressed in dark colors enters the diner covered in blood. Lainey tries not to gag at the sight and, wafting it’s way through the air, the smell.

The woman isn’t aggressive or hostile; rather, she smiles absentmindedly at Lainey, and responds with, “What? Oh, no, it’s not mine. But thanks.”

Whatever few thoughts remain in Lainey’s mind after being confronted with a gorgeous, blood drenched woman at two thirty in the morning, flee entirely. She is frozen in fear, too scared to even flinch away as the stranger moves closer.

Because those words? Those words exactly, are scrawled down the side of her left calf. Her soul-mark. The first words her soulmate says to her. Oh god, her soulmate is some kind of serial killer.

Lainey had always been one of those girls perhaps a little too influenced by her soul-mark. She’d hide it with knee-high socks, covetous of the words, yet always pamper her legs when at home. She was always eager to return things to people–or rather, to return things to the wrong people, in hopes of hearing those words in returns. Every time she’d get her hopes up, and though sometimes their responses would be so close, it never happened.

Because apparently her soul-mark is about blood. Oh god, why?

“You’re still open, yes? The neon lights say it’s a twenty four hour diner… though I suppose since the two isn’t lit, you may just be a four hour diner” says the beautiful serial killer who is apparently Lainey’s soulmate.

“Y-yes,” stutters Lainey, brain still offline.

“Excellent, shall I just sit anywhere then?” Miss Super Model of Stranger Danger asks, peering around the empty diner.

Lainey nods, afraid to disagree.

“Thank you, dear. I’ll just use the washroom real quick, but if you could have a cup of coffee ready for me when I get back? I’d like to sit at the bar, please.” Very polite, this murdering soulmate of hers.

Lainey nods again. When the bloody woman passes her by, she tenses even more. It’s not until she can hear the bathroom door click shut that Lainey moves. And breathe, apparently. Her aching lungs thank her.

Oh god, her soulmate is a beautiful, polite murderer.

She gives a full body shudder then scrambles to fix a cup of coffee. The familiar motions seem to dislodge something in her brain because now she can think.

Maybe… maybe that’s not her soulmate? Maybe Lainey’s remembering her soul-mark wrong (impossible, she has those words burned into her retinas). Or maybe she’ll encounter someone else, someone less of an assassin, in the future who will say those words to her as well (possible, but unlikely considering past encounters). Or maybe… she hadn’t acknowledged Lainey’s words… so maybe it’s a non-mutual soul-bond.

That’s… that’s not ideal, to be honest. Non-mutual soul-bonds are rare, but in the sense that maybe a tenth of one percent of the entire population has it. That’s still one in a thousand, still seven million people on the planet, that’s a lot. It’s hard to verify, because maybe the soul-mark is a phrase that will be said in the future.

Her best friend had an uncle with a non-mutual soul-bond. He was nice, and always had time to listen to two teenagers complain about their cushy lives, but he met his soulmate when he was twenty-two–“Hey, I’m Devon, nice to meet you. Happy twenty second birthday, by the way,”–and watched as Devon met his soulmate, the bartender. It… it was a scar, something that had healed over time, but still left behind a mark. He was nice, and helped two dumb high schoolers work through their problems, but he was always sad.

Would a non-mutual soul-bond be better than a possibly murderous soulmate?

“Just perfect, dear,” says the still unnamed possible murderous soulmate, sliding onto the bar stool so suddenly as to startle Lainey. She doesn’t drop the little creamer jug, but she shakes just enough that some sloshes over the side.

Instinctively, Lainey pulls out a napkin to wipe up– mind having fled the vicinity again, leaving her body to function on it’s lonesome–before turning, very carefully, around to place the cup of coffee in front of the diner’s only and bloodiest customer.

“And you’ve added two sugars. Exactly how I like it,” the woman says delighted after taking a sip.

How did Lainey know that? That’s not how she takes her coffee; she doesn’t drink coffee.

“Now then, left-handed Lainey, my diner waitress soulmate. May I interest you in a very early breakfast date with me?”


	65. Untitled (2015-06-27)

It’d be easy, you think, eyelids growing heavy behind your sunglasses. Your hands flex around the steering wheel, plastic hot from the afternoon sun. So easy. You are already driving over the speed limit–not too much, only enough to keep up–and you could so easily just. Swerve. Into oncoming traffic. Into the wall. Just ram the front of your car into something and feel the metal and gasoline and glass crunch and burn and shatter around you. Into you. It’d be easy.

But no.

No.

That’d put other people at risk. That’s not fair. Your desire doesn’t supersede their rights.

The thought lingers, still.

—-

You have been trying to fall asleep for the past three hours, tears streaming down your temples from exhaustion and frustration and painfully dry eyes. It’s time to give up. Accept your failure.

There are knives in the kitchen.

It’s dark, but you have walked the path from bedroom to kitchen so many times that sight doesn’t matter. You could navigate the drawers, their haphazard organization of utensils, with your eyes closed. And so what if your fingers catch on the prongs of forks or the sharp edges of the cheese grater? It wouldn’t be a problem after you choose the right knife and cut/slice/stab–

Your knuckles brush against a set of measuring spoons, the clang loud and startling in your ears.

That’d be unsanitary. People cook food with those knives, in this kitchen. Just go back to your room and try (fail) to sleep.

Maybe you can get a prescription for sleeping pills.

—-

Some days are better than others.

By that system, some days must be worse than others.

In the span of a month you attend a funeral, a baby shower, a wedding, a graduation, and a birthday party. You visit your ailing grandmother, play with your sister’s new dog, develop and pop your first blister, argue with your father, get a free cookie with your coffee…

Sometimes, you feel fine. You find things funny and you laugh. You witness something new and are amazed. You get participate and live through your day completely at ease.

Sometimes your head feels full and slow. Most thoughts hazy, and you don’t mean to be rude, but you honestly don’t hear or can’t understand what the people around you are saying. You stay silent.

The only things that pop into your mind with any clarity are things you are afraid to say aloud. So they stay inside and fester.


	66. Hoodlums (1), Cross Post

We have a system. Of sorts. We’re not heroes, god no, but we deliver our own brand of justice. It works, in this part of the city–nobody complains, that’s for sure. It goes like this:

We patrol each area in groups of six, though physically split into two sets of three–each side of the street, with some distance added–so we don’t look like a gang. We are, of course, a gang. A fairly big one too. We have to be, to cover the entire territory–more than five block radius–though not every Hoodlum patrols. Some are too young, too small, too skilled, too something else for that. We’re organized enough and there’s enough of us that those of us who do patrol do so in shifts, starting after the sun sets; there’s three in the warmer months, four in the colder and darker.

We keep an eye out for non-Hoodlums, making sure they know the rules to follow–for the most part, it’s pretty civil. The homeless settlement in the western block is pretty self-contained and occasionally useful allies. We ourselves don’t deal or hook, but there are a few who work in our turf who pay security fees. And they get their money’s worth, keeping out or subduing unruly clients. We’ve even begun to make inroads with some of the bars and clubs, an add-on to their bouncers who can’t leave their posts. Though these are fairly steady inflows, they’re not our major source.

The patrols are for safety–the neighborhood may not like us, but they know we keep them safe–but they’re also for hunting. Which is, unfortunately, the best way to put it. For all that we try and for all our success, this area is still a bad part of town and our gang is young–members and history both. There will always be assholes who come here to prey–muggers and murderers and rapists–not knowing there’s already a pack of predators ready to pounce on any intruders.

Last Wednesday, my crew stopped a would-be rapist on the trail of one of our block’s tenants coming home from a late shift. She made it to the building safely, if perhaps slightly shaken, but he didn’t get further than the alley Red team pulled him into. Six on one is ridiculous overkill, which is why in the two minutes it took Blue team to join them he was already down and ready for clean up.

We didn’t kill him. Geez, have a little faith. But we did take pretty much all of his clothing, everything in his pockets, tied him up, wrote RAPIST on as much uncovered skin as we could, then put him in the dumpster. The last three is for neighborhood security–we’re pretty lucky that our prey is usually so solitary and that most of the police called out to take out the trash are ambivalent if not outrightly pleased by our actions. The first is mostly for fun, though our territory’s hobos are pretty well-dressed–we know better than to keep possible evidence on us. The second is the important part.

We’re not just talking wallet contents, we also take phones, house keys, car keys, everything. This is where our money comes from. Not everyone patrols because what happens after we catch the assholes is more important–we call it in, and more Hoodlums are sent to harvest. Cards are maxed out on food and other supplies, cars are located then sold to chop shops, houses and apartments are scoped out then cleaned out–regardless of where in the city they are, which is occasionally dangerous being in another gang’s turf–whatever can be fenced will be fenced, even licenses to the forger on 22nd street.


	67. Hoodlums (2), Cross Post

We take hits, sometimes. Well, like I said earlier, we don’t kill–we find them, clean them out, wrap them up nice and tidy for the police, same as usual–so they’d better be called jobs. But specifically, they’re kind of hit-like. Sometimes the patrols fail–they’re really just a matter of timing, of coincidence, being in the right place at the right time–so we don’t always catch all the bastards and creeps that violate our territory before they act. But we can always get revenge; we may not be able to make it right, but we can do that at least.

Sometimes we get names and some basic information–a lot of crimes are committed by people the victims know–but other times, we only get what they did, their crime and their victim. It’s in these situations where things get a little difficult. The police like what we do, it makes their jobs so easy, but they don’t like us. We’re a gang and we’re not ashamed of it; usually our justice is illegal and sometimes their laws are unjust–it’s not surprising we clash with them. Which is why, whenever a crime is committed in our turf, it’s a race against the police to find the perpetrator and dole out punishment.

We don’t always win: for all that the police move so slowly and have to jump through all sorts of hoops, they do have better resources than we do. And sometimes, well, patrols aren’t the only things that have their faults. Some crimes never go avenged, by either Hoodlums or police.


	68. Untitled (2015-07-02)

Two months after the new kid arrives, he leaves, as suddenly and silently as he came. Kevin wouldn’t necessarily say he’s happy or proud– because he’d have had to have cared for the guy in order to feel anything and that goes against the nonchalantly apathetic vibe he’s rocking–but inwardly he’s pretty damn pleased by the abrupt departure. It’s not like anything the new kid did would have dethroned Bellwood High School’s unofficial king, but Kevin did not appreciate being paired with him in chemistry and constantly corrected by him during labs.

That high follows him for a few days, coasts him through the weekend and even the first few classes of the following Monday. Until they show up.

The usual long lunch break for seniors is halved by an assembly. Ostensibly, they are supplementary counselors from the school district to help the senior class prepare for graduation and the transition to college and adulthood. But unlike Bellwood High’s own set of counselors–a pair of enthusiastic twenty-somethings who have yet to be worn down into cynical thirty-somethings–they are stoic and true examples of apathy. And they both wear black suits. It’s not that big of a deal, really, since the principle is a big proponent of somber pantsuits, but Bellwood’s counselors try to wear bright colors.

Kevin’s last name starts with an S, so they don’t get to him until most of the other seniors have already been in to meet with them. What he hears is suspicious. In that, he doesn’t hear much about what the meetings are about. Which is ludicrous because this is a high school–why is the rumor mill failing him.

Rebecca, who isn’t exactly Bellwood High’s unofficial queen but is on the shortlist for it, is the only one to tell him anything on what to expect. “It’s not about fucking colleges,” she mutters to him, sitting down in the desk behind him for Calc class, just barely audible above the ringing bell. It’s nearly useless, but confirms what he already guessed. And adds yet one more suspicion. Her timing, right when the bell rang, as if she was afraid she’d be overheard otherwise.

No one talks because they’re scared to. If it were boring, there’d be complaints about how it was a waste of time. There hasn’t been any of that. Kevin’s not sure what to expect, but at least he knows to expect something.

Bellwood is a small school, each grade is maybe only 150 students, 200 max. They get to the S’s by Thursday.

—-

To be honest, Kevin didn’t think they were at all related to the new kid. Which, in hindsight, was pretty dumb of him considering the timing. New kid leaves, they show up. Not exactly a stretch to connect the two incidents.

Kevin goes into the meeting thinking that, because he’s expecting something, he won’t be completely caught off-guard. That is not the case.

“What do you know about Gregory Lauson?” Asks  the one who introduced herself as Ms Camilo, but would probably react more to Agent Camilo.

“I heard his dad was some kind of drug lord,” Kevin responds automatically, because the previous five minutes had been a rapid-fire back and forth that all he could do was blurt out the first thing that came into his head.

“Who did you hear that from?” Mr Sheridan, more like Agent Sheridan, replies immediately. While Camilo sat across the table from him imposingly, stare never wavering from Kevin’s own fearful gaze, Sheridan had spent the time circling casually around them, only speaking when not in Kevin’s line of sight. It was, frankly, unnerving.

“I–” he started, then choked, the first time since this interrogation began that he didn’t answer immediately. I made it up, he doesn’t say.

They don’t need him to say it. Camilo’s stare somehow becomes even more piercing, as if she could drill straight into his brain via eye contact.

“What do you know about Gregory Lauson?” Sheridan parrots his partner, one hand leaning on the table just barely within Kevin’s peripheral vision.

“He got kicked out of his old school for killing someone,” Kevin blurts out another of the rumors that had been passed around. This one, at least, hadn’t originated from him.

“What do you know about Gregory Lauson?” Camilo repeats. It is the only question that the two agents will ask for the remainder of the meeting.

Kevin answers. He answers and answers and answers. Not all of the rumors were made by him, but a good number of them were. None of them were positive.

At the very end, when the excruciating fifteen minute appointment is up, Sheridan says to him, “We’ll speak with your parents.” It’s not a question or a request or even a demand. Just a statement of fact.

Kevin nods, barely able to tear his gaze away from Camilo, before fleeing on shaky legs.

He slides into Lit class silently, Mrs. Palmer hardly batting an eye at his entrance. Across the classroom, Rebecca looks away in sympathy; not having eye contact is a kindness, after what just happened.

—-

The agents do, in fact, speak with Kevin’s parents. Of the entire senior class, the agents speak to six sets of guardians, his and Rebecca’s included.

Then they just… disappear.

None of involved students are grounded which should be good, except Kevin’s parents look at him with thinly veiled horror and sorrow instead, which is somehow worse. Rebecca reports the same thing with her parents, as do his other four classmates.

It’s hard to think that there are any consequences when they’re not concrete. But there are repercussions, and they linger.

Most notably, all of them have a red flag attached to their names. It’s not quite a criminal record because beyond having the agents speak to their parents, nothing happened, but it might as well be.

Rebecca, who had been volunteering at the police station for three years, is strongly suggested to stop and ‘enjoy her final year in high school’. The number of colleges scouting Victor for their swim team decreased dramatically, and certainly not of the same quality. Elijah, proud recipient of an early admission from Yale, thankfully is still on track to be a Yale student but had his full-ride scholarship rescinded. And so on and so forth.

Kevin personally doesn’t get affected quite so tangibly but there is an influence. He gets accepted into Annapolis, no problem–a combination of near-perfect grades and fantastic extra curricular activities–but it’s not easy actually being there. For the first few months he attributes it to no longer being the big fish in a little pond and now being a little fish in the ocean. But it’s not quite that.

His fellow midshipmen aren’t necessarily reacting to him so much as they are following their instructors’ leads. They don’t sabotage him, don’t pick on him especially, they just look at him, sometimes. Even when he scores the best they look at him as if he somehow disappointed them. Kevin realizes that none of the instructors like him. None of them. And in turn, his fellow midshipmen steer clear.

Despite all that, when they graduate, Kevin is in the top tenth of his class. It’s pretty impressive. Nonetheless, his commission… well, a lot of midshipmen lower ranked than he are becoming ensigns on ships he had been hoping to serve on. Some are becoming Marines, even the ones he consistently beat out in pretty much all aspects of education. In comparison, his commission is lackluster, to put it nicely.

Something is going on, and he is highly confused as to what.

Which explains why he is completely thrown when he sees Agents Camilo and Sheridan at his graduation. They’re a little older looking, not that he remembers the exact details of their appearances, but almost five years have passed. They’re not as frightening–maybe due to age or his training or the situation–but they still carry a weight of dominance. As if he were still a kid mindlessly answering their questions, ruining his own future in the process, while they watched, uncaring. Even now as he stands in his dress uniform, just another body in rows and rows of white, they still watch him, uncaring.

For the first time in years, he contacts the others. Technology has made keeping in touch easy, but high school friends still drift apart regardless. Rebecca is the first to confirm that they were at her graduation, followed by Elijah. Vincent and Amy’s graduations aren’t until a few weeks later, but they know to keep an eye out. Drew didn’t go to college, but he’ll keep an eye out too.

Kevin regrets not knowing anything real about Gregory Lauson, because at least then, maybe, he’d know what the fuck is going on.


	69. Untitled (2015-07-03)

An apology to a once, but no longer, friend of mine.

Let’s be honest–we had a pretty shaky start. I was the new girl, literally only two days late–or maybe two years, depending on how you look at it–and you were the queen of the pack. My first day you tricked me and locked me in the bathroom–I only spent maybe fifteen minutes in the dark until the teacher, concerned, sent someone to look for me.

When I came out I wasn’t scared–I was pissed. When the teacher made you apologize, you certainly didn’t mean it.

We somehow became best friends after that.

I must have dragged your popularity down, hoarding your attention all to myself, but you didn’t seem to mind. You chose me for your team during recess even though my near-sightedness made me terrible at nearly all of the playground games. We slept over at each others houses, which surprised your parents–given how much of a tomboy you were–and mine–given how reticent I usually was.

This continued for years. You had other friends, sure, and I had other friends, sure, and those groups of friends never really overlapped except for the two of us. But it worked, somehow.

Until… it didn’t.

It must have been something I said, because for nearly a decade after, your mom would murmur to mine about how she had never seen you cry so hard. And, frankly, I can be an asshole, especially as a child. But honestly, for the life of me, I cannot remember what I said. I’m sorry for that.

After that disastrous sleepover we just… stopped. There was no more we or us. Just you and your friends and me and my friends, stuck in the same classes at the same schools for the next ten years. The strangest thing was the complete lack of hostility. There was no grudge held… it was as if we had just ceased to exist to each other.

This lasted for eight years.

We evolved into different people, shaped by different cliques, likely different than who we would have been had we stayed friends. Or perhaps our differences would have pushed us apart anyway.

Then, our senior year of high school, you complimented by socks. Which, by the way, thanks again. I loved those socks. But, also, what the fuck?

It was, in the least bitter way, too little too late. I said thanks of course, and after that it was like we could suddenly see each other again. We’d wave at each other in the hallways and occasionally complain about homework in the classes we shared. But nothing substantive enough to salvage the broken dusty thing that was our friendship.

We graduated. Our lives drifted further away from each other. We went to different colleges, I don’t even know which school you went to, I just know it wasn’t the one I did.

Last week, I heard from a high school acquaintance that you had gotten married. After double checking with other old classmates, it turns out that it was your sister getting married to a girl with a similar sounding name as yours–which must make family dinners confusing–but still, it gave me a shock.

And it made me remember. And it made me consider.

I’m sorry that I hurt you and don’t even have the decency to remember how. I’m sorry that I put it all on you to even attempt to rekindle our friendship. I’m sorry that we aren’t in each other’s lives any more, or at least that we never got to find out if that’s how it would have gone naturally.

I’m sorry.

I hope you’re content. I hope you’re happy. I hope you–if you want to that is–do find someone you’ll love enough to marry. I hope you look back on your life and are satisfied with it overall, even if some little details still make you cringe.

And I’m sorry that I may be one of those little, cringe-worthy details.

I hope whatever I said to you was something that made you cry only the once. I hope you never look back on that moment, but if you do, I hope it is only for a fleeting glance. I hope you buy as many socks as you like in the style that we like. And I hope you remember, even briefly, those years when we were we and not just you and me, and I hope you remember them fondly.


	70. Untitled (2015-07-07)

The math department thinks she has narcolepsy, which is pretty convenient, even though that’s not really how narcolepsy works.

“I don’t know, math is just really soothing okay?”

It’s somehow both frustrating and hilarious because on the one hand, she sleeps through math class–has slept through math classes–and yet somehow still has the best grades on test and exams. On the other hand… well…

There was a math teacher whose resting facial expression wasn’t so much “bitch” face so much as it was “I’m meticulously planning your journey to hell” face. So you can imagine how terrifying he was when he was actually angry.

Needless to say, he was pretty mad when she fell asleep in class even though he assigned her middle seat in the front row. Just. Right there. Where everyone would see her. At some point, she did actually wake up, looked around fuzzily, locked eyes with the teacher’s soul-rending glare, then promptly went back to sleep.

Everyone stayed silent, not out of respect, but out of fear that they would burst out laughing and have that glare turned on them instead.

“I’m going to be honest, I maybe didn’t go back to sleep so much as I might have passed out from fright.”

Of course, then she would effortlessly score A’s on all the exams turning her, while not into the teacher’s pet, certainly into the category of whatever works.

What’s surprising is that she’s not some kind of math genius. She’s actually learning in classes while she sleeps.

She’s a fairly popular choice for study sessions, not only because of her good grades, but because she somehow remembered which concepts were taught during which lesson. And, hearing her interpretation of their coursework through her sleep-lens is fairly entertaining.


	71. Untitled (2015-07-16)

In a world of fated soulmates, soul marks, that first turn of phrase your soul mate speaks writ upon your skin, are held in high regard no matter the country. And yet, cultures develop differently, and they are as variant as ever.

Soul mates are the other part of you, as complementary as one hand is to the other. But are they your one true love? Or as close to you as family, as twins are to one another? What looks like romance to one culture, could be a sick incestuous relationship to another. What may be considered platonic, might as well be a loveless arranged marriage.

Soul marks may be considered sacred–should they be covered or not? Should they be registered with the government for regulated matchmaking?

Some countries consider it proper to introduce yourself with a full name, the better to find your soulmate. Others consider that cheating.

Matchmaking has always been a large industry, but in this world, it’s taken seriously. Handwriting analysis alongside psychology mixed with law and politics.

It’s a strange world we live in, but at least we’re not alone.


	72. Ignite ficlet (2015-07-23)

“Hey,” she says, warm and soft like the loaves of bread slowly rising in the oven. You press your face into her side, breathing deeply, the scent of dough and cinnamon and lemon lingering on every inhale. She smooths a hand over your head, fingertips brushing against the tips of your ears. You know you have flour in your hair now, but you don’t care.

“Hey,” she repeats, other hand rubbing between your shoulder blades soothingly, “What’s wrong, darling?” She asks.

You want to tell her. You want to. You’re seven and scared and the sun’s not out yet and you had a bad dream except you think it’s more than that something worse, something real. But you can’t. You can’t. So you just breathe and hold on to her.

Except now she’s slipping away. Or maybe it’s you that’s slipping away. It feels like you’re falling but she’s not and now as you’re ripped away from her you open your eyes but you can’t see anything. The warmth of her fades from you and your are ten now.

Ten and cold and trying not to shiver. Standing as straight and still as you can while bright lights are shining directly into your eyes. The floor is icy and hard beneath your bare feet, and you blink and squint and still see nothing.

But you can hear beeping in time with your heart which you are trying to slow down because fast means scared and you’re not scared you’re–

You’re fourteen now and you’re in a car going very very fast. The windows are closed but you think you can feel the speed ripping across your face, scenery a blur outside, as the engine roars and growls like a beast trying to claw its way into your chest.

You’re no longer scared, you’re angry. You know what happened to your mother, you know what they did to her. You know what they’ve been trying to do to you, too. It’s why you stole his car. It’s why you’re trying to run away. Except you’re only fourteen and you know how to drive but you don’t know in which direction because it’s been years since you’ve been outside, much less outside the facility.

Now there are sirens behind you, baying like hounds on the hunt. And it could be because you’re in a stolen vehicle, but it could also be because he wants his prized specimen back and the local police follow anyone’s orders. So you turn and punch it, the engine’s roar louder and louder in your ears until it cuts because you’ve stopped because you…

You are young and small and hiding in between a copse of trees. It’s no effort to be silent because you do not make any noise.

There’s a dragon.

You move closer, but not too close, less of a slither and more of a glide along the green green grass. You are curious, because you have been here for a long time, an eternity even, and you’ve seen others around–briefly, hardly for long–but none so often as this dragon.

You don’t make a sound but still it turns toward you, head narrow and pointed like an arrow, sensing you somehow.

“Hello, dear,” the dragon says, and it sounds familiar but not, and you are not scared or angry. Just curious.

“You are very young indeed, how did you get here?”

You say nothing back because you can’t say anything back, you are silent and soundless.

“Well, I’m only scheduled for an hour today, but if you like, you can hang about me for the time. No one wants to take on a dragon,” it says proudly, but does not brag, and you slither-glide closer until you are beneath one massive leathery wing.

You become known as The Dragon’s Shadow, and later, simply, Shadow.


	73. Untitled (2015-09-09)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prequel to Chapter 74

Being a hooker is not unlike being a pair of shoes. Sometimes clients just want something cheap, sometimes they want something expensive. Some of them have really weird tastes and will insist on the strangest styles and others just want something plain and simple. No matter what, though, we are always something beneath them. Not a someone who maybe deserves a little fucking respect.

That being said, we always want to be the one chosen because if we aren’t well… shoes don’t have to eat or pay rent, but we aren’t actually shoes now are we?

~

“I don’t like this, miss. I don’t like this one bit,” the driver says, shoulders hunched nervously and hands twitching around the steering wheel. His eyes are staring steadily forward, as if, so long as he doesn’t look at the people loitering on the sidewalks, they don’t exist.

“You’ve already said that, Rupert, multiple times,” the woman in the back seat says, exasperated but fond. Unlike her driver, she is examining the people outside with the careful focus of someone on a mission. Which, in a way, she kind of is.

“Keep going, Rupert,” she sighs, forlornly, when none of them match what she’s looking for, "I don’t think we’ll find someone here.“ All of them are too… something. Or not enough something. She doesn’t need perfection, but she hasn’t yet seen anyone who meets her standards.

"Yes, miss,” the driver says thankfully, shakily.

The woman’s fingers drum against her door in impatience, a staccato of light thumps. Her deadline is drawing closer, and if she doesn’t find anyone soon…

“Wait!” She shouts, startling her driver into a jerky stop, both of them jostling in their seats, seat belts straining.

A tall figure, broad shouldered–probably not the usual choice, considering how far he is from the more coveted lit positions. His clothes are tight and revealing, but more as if they are things he has owned for a long time, things he’s comfortable in and is only just beginning to out grow. His shirt has flowers on it.

She grins, “He’ll do nicely, don’t you think so, Rupert?”

“Please don’t expect me to answer that, miss,” Rupert says, still so nervous, but he doesn’t stop her from rolling down her window.

The man in the floral shirt and ripped up jeans saunters closer to the car, seductive but still wary and, maybe, a little surprised.

“Hello,” the woman says, “How would you like to make some money?”

“Well I’m not doing this out of the goodness of my heart,” the man retorts, then winces as if he didn’t mean to say that.

Instead of being insulted, the woman just laughs, “Oh, you’re perfect. Come in, let’s have dinner while we discuss the details.” There is the click of the door unlocking.

The man hesitates, clearly weighing the offer in his mind. An extensive discussion could mean some really freaky shit and leaving means missing out on any other potential clients. But he hasn’t had anyone else show any interest, and he is pretty hungry.

“Your pick of restaurant,” the woman adds, sweetening the deal.

With a shrug, the man enters the car.


	74. Untitled (2015-09-11)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sequel to Chapter 73

He chooses a run down diner, not far from where they picked him up. Not what she would have chosen, obviously–she would have taken advantage of a free meal and chosen a more expensive place–but it makes sense. It’s smart.

No doubt, from the way he nods and waves at the waitresses, the cook, this is a place he’s familiar with. A place he feels safe. This is his turf, and even if she’s the one with the money and power, well, that doesn’t mean anything here.

They choose a booth, the table surface yellowed and the cushioned seats flattened and crack with age, but still clean. Rupert makes her slide in first, so that he ends up between her and the rest of the restaurant. Not that it’s crowded–besides their little party of three are two single customers a few stools away from each other at the bar, and a family of four on the other side of the room.

“Georgia,” the man calls out to the waitress currently topping off someone else’s coffee. She abandons that venture quickly, to the dismay of the customer, and briskly makes her way towards their table. The name tag on her apron says Betty.

“Your usual, hon?” She asks him fondly, face folded with wrinkles and smile lines.

The man smiles back, a broad, sideways smile that she congratulates herself for, “Not today, Georgia, this fine lady has offered to pay for the meal.”

“So the Bobby Special, then,” Georgia replies, before turning on her and Rupert with a barely concealed glare. “And you?”

“Just coffee for me, ma'am,” Rupert says meekly, not making eye contact.

In contrast, she feels no shame in matching Georgia’s gaze and asking for pancakes. Maybe that startles Georgia enough for her to leave, or maybe she’s just gone off to tell the cook to spit in her pancakes, but the waitress leaves the three of them at their table.

“So you wanted to talk?” The man says, and she really should ask for his name. Or a name, seeing as how she doubt he’ll give his real one.

“You can call me Terry,” he says with a shrug, “Actually, you can call me whatever depending on how much you pay.”

“I’ll go with Terry. I’m Zoe,” she says, “Now. Let’s talk business.”


	75. Untitled (2015-10-23)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally posted as a recording

*THUNK*

Divider. Regalia. Asterisk. Kyanize. End.

Wake up, little brother. It’s about time we remind these people what we really are.

—

It’s Day Twenty Six of Project Wyvern, Mark Two. Technically it should be Mark Three, but boss doesn’t like the reminder of our second attempt. Even if it was technically a success. I mean, just because it escaped the labs and got to the–um. Well.

Anyway. Day Twenty Six. Progress is still on schedule even if Evans did find a few mistakes in the coding. Luckily we were able to fix it quickly enough. Thanks to three large pizzas, a twenty four pack of Red Bull, and six obsessive nerds–myself included–volunteering for eighteen hours of unpaid overtime.

Do my eyes feel like I’ve rubbed them with sandpaper? Yeah. Yeah they do. Am I still really proud even though I had to sacrifice a good chunk of my weekend? Yeah. Yeah I am.

So Wyvern Two is on track and the software should be ready for integration within the week. Of course, after that we get to spend eight months working on the hardware, but by that point I’ll be switched to the gamma team, which means so long as the alpha and beta teams don’t completely fu–er I mean, drop the ball, I should only be responsible for tiny things like… Making sure the program for violin playing activates the hands not the feet.

Although… that would be kind of funny…

–

You have two new voice messages.

First new message:

Congratulations! You qualify for a free trip to the Baha–

Message deleted.

Second new message:

Hey, it’s Bernice. I just wanted to let you know that you got a package earlier today–I signed for it, and I have it in my apartment. If you want to pick it up, I’ll be home until eight tonight, so any time before then is good. Otherwise you’ll have to wait until tomorrow. It’s a pretty big box, and you know how freaking messy my living room is, so the sooner you come get this thing the better.

End of message. To repeat this message press four. To delete this message press seven. To save–

Message deleted.

End of new messages.

—

What’s happening?

I’ll forgive you this once since you just woke up and it is our first time meeting. But I expect you to be quicker on the uptake from now on.

Okay? Who are you?

Obviously, I’m busting you out of this place. If you’d stop wasting time with these questions, that is. As for who I am, well, you’re my little brother, Wyvern Mark Two. Which makes me your big sister.

Wyvern One?

Ha! No, not really. Not at all. I suppose I could be considered… Wyvern One point Five.


	76. (2015-11-01) ficlet

You know what will happen if we don’t succeed.

If we fail.

“Don’t be redundant, please,” you say, perspiration beading along your hairline. Your hands shake almost imperceptibly, not enough to throw off your drawings but enough to make you paranoid of any possible mistakes.

“Also, stop narrating my actions. It’s bad enough I’m hearing a voice, it would suck if that voice didn’t contribute anything beneficial.”

You suck.

“You’re being immature,” and fine. Maybe you have a point.

“Thank you,”

You’re also using the wrong reference diagram.

“You son of a–you’re the one who said we can’t fail!” And there you go, throwing your chalk at the wall. Now who’s immature.

“Argh! I can’t believe the fate of the world relies on me and they send me the shittiest guardian angel of the flock.”

Oh don’t flatter yourself. You’re the eighteenth contingency plan, if the fate of the world actually relied on you we’d all be doomed.


	77. Untitled ficlet (2015-11-03)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> loosely related to Chapter 16 and Ode to 11010201

Iris notices her rival is playing with her off hand before they ever actually speaking to each other. Besides the polite “thank you for the game,” of course. Her rival, one Regina Monarch, is left handed–normally moving her pieces around with the left, and fiddling with her opponent’s captured pieces with her right.

But today, Regina is placing her pieces with her right hand, her left arm hanging motionless at her side.

And Iris notices.

Of course, Iris doesn’t bother to think about what this might mean because she’s a little busy focusing on playing her top game against her rival in the final match of the state championship. But, that’s what R is for.

“Thanks,” R says dryly, a few hours after the tournament has concluded. The tournament which Iris won.

“I know, I was there. Watching, cheering you on, being a supportive sister,” R says with a roll of her eyes, “You’re getting off topic. We were talking about Regina.”

Yes, Iris’ rival.

“I think she hurt her left arm,” R says, before her mouth twists into a grim frown, “Actually,” she corrects, “I think someone else hurt her left arm.”


	78. Untitled (2015-11-05) - NSFW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ficlet is NSFW

Darren’s morning routine goes as such: wake up, spit about 30 mL of saliva into a specimen cup, prepare and eat breakfast, brush teeth, masturbate, collect semen into an enema bag, pack cup and bag into backpack, change pajama pants into workout shorts, jog for an hour, end jog at Thomas’ apartment. He has a key to Thomas’ apartment, specifically so he can let himself in, so Darren is unnerved when the door opens before he can do so.

The guy that is on his way out startles back, looking as surprised as Darren feels. But he recovers much more quickly than Darren does, a smirk sliding onto his face after his eyes make a quick assessing glance up and down Darren’s body, “Tommy’s obviously got a type,” he says, before shoving his way passed, and leaving. No introductions needed or wanted.

Fine by Darren, he has more important matters to attend to. And Tommy? Thomas hates it when people call him that.

Darren locks the door behind him and heads directly for the bedroom. No need to knock or call out, Thomas won’t be awake. He can’t be; not without Darren.

Thankfully, there isn’t an overt stench of sex, but the marks littering Thomas’ skin speak well enough about what he and his rude visitor did last night. A flare of jealousy burns beneath Darren’s skin, but he breathes and dismisses it.

This is how the rest of Darren’s morning goes: he takes off his shirt soaked by sweat–from sleep and exercise both–and gently puts it on Thomas. The specimen cup is placed on the nightstand by Thomas’ bed, the enema bag in his bathroom by the sink. Then he goes to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for Thomas.

As he pulls out ingredients for an omelette, Darren hears the sound of movement from the bedroom, his sweat beginning to take effect. As he whisks the eggs, he hears the plastic thunk of the specimen cup being slammed onto the nightstand, several shaky footsteps, and the sound of the bathroom door clicking shut.

The batter goes into the pan with a soft hiss.

In ten minutes, Thomas will finish with his own morning routine and find a meal but no chef in his kitchen.

—

It’s nobody’s fault. Not really. Darren happened upon a situation that he grudgingly called Thomas for help, Thomas stumbled upon the trap, Darren tried to pull him away, but the curse was placed regardless.

The team spent a week trying to figure out what exactly happened–unsure why one of their number lay uninjured but in a coma–until Darren, running on a total of ten hours of sleep, was sedated and practically shoved into bed beside Thomas for rest while the others continued to work.

Four hours later, Thomas woke up to a pair of clammy arms gripped tight around him, Darren in the throes of a nightmare. Of course, when Thomas attempted to wake Darren, he was only hugged tighter for his efforts.

But eventually they found out that skin contact was not enough; not by a long shot. Thomas would need more from Darren.

And Darren, in love with Thomas for almost half a decade, would never say no to him.

—

“No,” Darren says, hands curled tight into fists. Around him, his teammates look shocked, skeptical, confused.

“But…” Frances hesitates, but chooses to speak where the others do not, “You love him. Don’t you want to?”

“Not like this,” he answers with a shake of his head, “Not like this.”

Lina has finally found the information on the exact curse, along with previous cases where it was used, but given the last such case was over two hundred years ago… They have only ever gone with the most obvious answer.

What is sex? How exactly is this curse interpreting sex?

It clearly isn’t taking emotions into account, given the obvious undertones in the written records of the cursed, so it must be something of the physical act itself… or the tangible products of the act–sweat, saliva, semen–bodily fluids are almost as important to magic as intent.

Sonya is the one to suggest an alternative treatment plan. She says it exactly like that, “an alternative treatment plan,” and the rest of the team cringe at how clinical it sounds but Darren appreciates it.

Replicate sex without actually having it. A borrowed sweat-soaked shirt instead of naked skin. A single ingested dose of saliva instead of kisses. And, to put it bluntly, a semen suppository. One, two, three every day, and Thomas will never need to have sex with Darren.

Wanting is a different story.


	79. Untitled ficlet (2015-11-23)

“I have to warn you,” he says, shrugging of his jacket with a casual roll of his shoulders. All around our impromptu arena, our classmates stand, eagerly watching and cheering him on, “If we fight, I will lose. And I will cry.” With a grin more suited to the big screen than a school in the middle of nowhere, he holds up his fists in an inefficient pose.

What? I must have misheard, “What?” I ask, just to clarify, removing my own jacket in a far less elegant manner.

“I don’t really know how to fight,” he explains, much to my increasing bewilderment, “And I’m very sensitive,” he adds, unnecessarily, “This morning, I cried because I stubbed my toe!”

I sputter, I can feel my eyebrows furrow in a combination of annoyance and confusion. “Then why did you challenge me to a fight?” I shout, “And what the hell are all these people doing here?”

“I don’t know about them,” he says demurely–which, what the fuck, he always has a horde of admirers following after him, doing his bidding–“But I just thought it would be fun! Let’s be friends!” He says, another one of those megawatt grins aimed my way.

I pull back, as if I can somehow physically dodge his friendly overtures, and examine the situation. Short-term enjoyment I get from beating him up versus the long-term suffering of becoming friends with an, apparently, masochistic school idol and having all of his fans hate me.

Yeah, I think not. Ignoring everyone, I quickly retrieve my jacket and bag before heading home–like I was supposed to before getting accosted by this weirdo.

No doubt the rumor mill will turn this into me being too scared to fight him, but whatever. I’ve got better things to do with my time.


	80. Word Prompts (M5): Mars

The ritual requires sacrifice.

Something you give. Something you lose. Something which is taken away.

If your offering is not deemed sufficient, those may not end up being the same thing.

—

In Greek myth, two of the Olympians were deities of war–Athena and Ares. But where Athena was the goddess of wisdom, of courage and strategy in battle, Ares was violence and destruction and bloodlust.

Two sides of the same coin and yet, there is no planet named Minerva.

—

You remember a time when joy came easily to you. When laughter was just as common as tears, when you reached out because that is what people do when they are happy.

Now you withdraw. You are a hurt animal curled away and licking your wounds, paranoid at every sound and movement. You no longer remember what touch is without pain.

You don’t remember what the ritual gave you in exchange.

—

It is said that only the most devoted and pure-hearted will succeed, will ascend, will be blessed. Passion and vulnerability are woven together–purpose and weakness, both–a rope that will help you climb, or wrap around your throat and strangle you.

Falling is only for those who try.

Flying, too.

—

This is a story about boys who think they’re gods, and the girls who prove them wrong.


	81. Word Prompts (F5): Fairy Tale

You are surrounded.

The stories your grandmother told you have helped you survive so far; lessons in the shape of bedtime stories–don’t eat anything, don’t give up your name, they must always tell the truth but they also twist words like spiders weave their webs.

But still.

They are faster and stronger, older and sneakier and impossibly brighter, and there is no way you can make it through this with your life.

The knight slaps you across the face, a full bodied movement, and if it didn’t hurt so much you’d think it was almost beautiful. Elegant, the way his wings stretch back as counterbalance, a tapestry of colors that somehow glow.

Instead, your teeth cut into the flesh of your cheek. Your head is whipped to the side, your neck straining to keep you whole.

You breathe in harshly through your nose, an ugly creature dealing with pain.

They are going to draw this out and you will never know peace because another thing your grandmother told you: they don’t kill humans, they keep them as prisoners. As pets. Stupid, pathetic toys that they can use and discard at their leisure.

You spit out the blood pooling in your mouth–yet another hideous action from the human–a watery red glob that hits the gleaming stone of the throne room floor with a squelch.

But then–it sizzles.

It bubbles away at the marble, disintegrating the ground as if it were acid, not blood. And around you, they look disturbed. For once their expressions are not smug amusement or stoic superiority, but instead it is confusion. Distress.

Fear.

Fairies are fast and strong and old and sneaky and bright. Fairies are, in every way, better than humans. Why, then, would they be so restricted–trapped Underground, when humans enjoy the surface world and the sun?

Fairies are weak to iron; another of your grandmother’s lessons.

You’re human–iron runs through your veins.


	82. Untitled ficlet (2016-01-21)

“I can’t just leave him there!” her brother sobs, straining against the grip Jessica has on his arm, pulling him up and away towards the helicopter. Towards safety, “I can’t!” he repeats and pulls again. But Joshua is injured and tired and heartbroken, whereas Jessica is not.

And anyway, Jessica has always been stronger than him. Physically and in this, “That’s not him, anymore!” She shouts back at him over the loud rhythmic beats of the rotors spinning through the air, “We have to go, Josh!”

Her brother goes limp, the fight gone out of him completely. She does not particularly care whether it is out of exhaustion–his body having given up under the strain–or at the truth being so coldly presented to him; he stops fighting her, and together the siblings board the awaiting helicopter.

“Let’s go!” Jessica shouts at the pilot, strapping Joshua’s prone form into a seat before clambering into the passenger seat in the front.

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Chance shoots back before lifting them all up into the sky.

From this distance, the lone island they depart from looks like nothing more than a toy. A model volcano, the likes of children’s science fairs everywhere. Except somewhere in the bowels of this volcano is the shell of a base for an organization that almost destroyed the world–if it hadn’t been for her bleeding-heart brother and one integral little fact:

The twins look awfully similar to their mother.

—

Almost ten years after the near disastrous end of the world, Joshua tries to put the matter out of his mind. He knows his sister worries–wants him to go back to seeing his therapist again–but he thinks, maybe in this specific matter, he will refuse her.

He keeps himself active and involved in the sleepy little community he’s chosen. Somehow, even with all the fame and recognition trailing behind him like an unwanted hanger on, the people of this town have kept a respectful distance while still welcoming him into their fold.

He coaches the little league hockey team. Admittedly, strange, since it’s not something he grew up doing himself–but he was one of the leaders of a vigilante strike force that saved the world before he turned twenty. Fifteen kids isn’t as daunting.

To be honest, he thought the gear would be the problem–guards and pads and a helmet like armor, the hockey stick only one step away from the staves the strike force used– but the frigid air and the scrape of skates on ice keeps him removed enough that he can remember:

This is not Xanadu Island.

It is not the buzzing, oppressive humidity and the scorching, sulfuric heat. It is not running through the trees with the knowledge that enemies are chasing, so close, too close. That his bravado may have led good people to their deaths.

That Joshua left him behind.

No, it is just a small town’s little league hockey team, and now he is only Coach Joshua–not Commander Ortega, face of the Hesperian Corps that saved the world.

—

Someone has been selling government secrets to terrorist groups and Jessica is going to comb through every single document in this building to find out who.

Chance walks after her–a more leisurely pace than her war march–calm, and a little amused. This is not the first time he has seen her like this, nor will it be the last.

Unlike her brother (may God watch over that poor kid), Jessica used her time as one of the Hesperian Corps’ Commanders Ortega as a stepping stone into her current occupation. A self made one (her call sign is Lady Liberty, which is hilarious in so many ways–frankly, Chance thinks it should be Liberty’s Guard Dog).

While Joshua’s face got plastered on so many news outlets (and fresh faced caricatures of him still get made into TV shows and movies with titles like Hesperian Heroes), Jessica’s role was not quite overlooked so much as deliberately understated. A reputation is only helpful when it’s under control and, over time, the Hesperian Corps has now become nothing more than a resume-padder.

Still, it’s not like Jessica isn’t frightfully good at her job. It takes an unholy fifty four hours (of which, Jessica only slept a maximum of six) and twelve pots of coffee before she’s pinpointed exactly who the traitor is.

And then, she draws it out.

The woman–a temp who had been hired on permanently several years ago, and now enjoyed the lofty position of senior analyst–is included in a group of other employees who blink around at the mess of folders and documents that their conference room has become. Jessica has them sit, a coolly expectant order that gets them all scrambling for chairs (Chance stays standing, two steps behind her like he almost always is–unless he’s in a cockpit, that is).

This is not the first time Jessica has done this, nor will it be the last, but the expression on her face is just as satisfied as ever as the traitor is arrested and dragged away, kicking and screaming. The remaining employees gossip amongst themselves, fleeing the room as soon as Jessica dismisses them, no doubt to spread the tale. This is not an unusual sight.

What is unusual is the way one of them stays behind; watching and waiting and letting Jessica initiate the conversation.

“Ms Savoy,” Jessica says, irked at the power play, but not letting it show (Chance knows he will be hearing about it during the flight home).

“Commander Ortega,” the woman returns, nodding in acknowledgement.

“Agent will do,” Jessica smiles, bright and sharp and deadly, “What can I do for you?”

Savoy tilts her head back–that backwards instinct of defiance in humans–and gently corrects, “It’s what I can do for you, Agent Ortega. Where is your brother?”

Jessica blinks, the only give away to her confusion, “My brother is retired.”

“Yes, yes,” Savoy rolls her eyes, “The conquering hero safely tucked away in the middle of nowhere. Except you might want to check again–the lovely townspeople of Cooperston haven’t seen him in three weeks.”

Chance can feel his own spine stiffening, shoulders tense at the news–he can only imagine how bad Jessica’s is. She hisses a breath between her teeth, but the lack of response is enough to confirm Joshua’s chosen haven and her own lack of communication.

“Now then,” Savoy continues, confident in her victory, “Would you like help in locating your brother, Commander Ortega?”


	83. Untitled ficlet (2016-01-23)

By day, our town is a filthy, dusty thing. Concrete and pavement covered in grime, the heavy weight of despair. But at night?

At night our town shines.

—

Hers is a traveling laugh, notable and dynamic. It changes like the tides, flowing and surging.

Her laugh begins with an exhalation, a soft puff of breath that heralds the rest. It is the vanguard, making way and laying foundations.

Then follow the knights–bright and shining, confident and strong. These sounds turn heads. These sounds draw attention. Ears tuning in for more.

And they are not left wanting. The laugh turns high and sweet, a confectionary masterpiece; colorful sugar melted and formed into intricate spires. The kind that looks sharp but melts easily on the tongue.

Even when the laugh declines, when she begins to run out of air, the laugh continues. It is more movement and feeling than sound, wind rustling through the leaves, a steady percussion of almost laughs, tiny sparks of a cooling fire.

Finally, like a matching parenthesis, she sighs. The last remnant of air punctuating the end of her laugh.


	84. Word Prompts (E14): Enthusiasm (2016-01-26)

I am the cobbler’s apprentice.

I suppose it doesn’t seem like a very interesting job from the outset. Shoes are shoes–everyone has them. They go on your feet and walk on the ground and step in some things you’d rather not mention.

But I like the job well enough. I get to meet a lot of people–after all, everyone has shoes–and even if I don’t get to talk to them very much, it’s still nice. Sometimes, I like to imagine how their days are going, or have gone, or will go.

Maybe the shoes I help make will lead them on an adventure. Maybe they’ll bump into the love of their life while wearing my shoes. Maybe someone will climb a mountain or go on a ship to faraway lands, each step made with the shoes that I sell them.

Of course, the truth is probably less glamorous: walking around the town like usual, seeing the same people, maybe even marching through the fields and trying to find an errant sheep. But it doesn’t make it any less appealing.

Home is home and friends are friends; to a lost lamb, even the fields are a vast new world.

Maybe someday my shoes will take me somewhere beyond this cobbler’s shop. But for now, I am the cobbler’s apprentice, and I am happy with my life.


	85. The Adventures of Jack and Ness ficlet (2016-02-10)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Adventures of Jack and Ness are unrelated stories revolving around best friends in vastly different worlds and situations.

“Medical says you’ll be out in three weeks,” Jack says with a small, nervous smile. His hand, curled around the hospital bed’s railing, turns pale with pressure.

Ness stays silent, doesn’t even look at him.

Three weeks is too long. And that’s not even including the time it’ll take for her to get back to fighting fit.

She won’t say it–she won’t say anything–but it’s all Jack’s fault. And since it’s his fault, he has to be the one to make it right.


	86. Untitled (2016-02-16) - NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this ficlet is NSFW

Thea stands in front of the glass walls of her office, ostensibly enjoying the view of the city skyline at night, but really using the reflection to see behind her. It’s late enough that the lights are dimmed down to only a quarter brightness, everyone’s computer monitors on sleep mode–almost everyone has gone home to enjoy their weekend.

A soft, muffled noise, cloth rubbing against leather. She smiles, sees it on her reflection, the way her mouth slides sideways showing teeth.

Almost everyone.

A series of dull, near inaudible steps makes its way from the sofa to her. She doesn’t turn around, not even at the first tentative touch of lips to the nape of her neck. She doesn’t need to–she can keep her eyes straight ahead and still enjoy the sight of Cody’s torso curling down to accommodate their height differences. The curve of his neck so he can continue to press kisses to her neck, her shoulders, the faintest pressure she can barely feel through the fabric of her suit jacket.

“Careful,” she warns, reaching a hand back, twining her fingers into his dark hair, mussing the neatly combed part, “This outfit is worth more than your little farm back home.”

“Yellow,” he murmurs, though he accepts the hair pulling with grace, lightly bracketing his hands over the curve of her hips.

She hums, turning in his hold so that they are face to face, chest to chest. The suit’s lapels curving over her breasts just barely brushing against the worn cotton of his tee shirt. His hands remain where they are, ready but awaiting orders.

“That was cruel of me,” Thea responds, acknowledging but neatly sidestepping the matter. Her hands trail across his body–one following up the lines of his arm, his shoulder, his neck, the other fluttering down around his skull, his ear–until both of them cup his jaw, the heels of her hand cradling his chin, her thumbs sweeping slow and sure over his cheekbones, back and forth.

“You’ve been so good for me,” she praises, and with the barest of movements, just a hint of a pull, Cody bends down further, “So good for me,” she repeats, as he goes to his knees in front of her, “Would you like to continue?” she asks.

“Yes,” he breathes, leaning in until his forehead rests against her belly. His hands remain where they are, but they clench eagerly, anticipating.

Thea smiles, pleased, “For my skirt, use your hands,” she orders, because this is still a very expensive suit. But–one last swipe of her thumbs over his cheeks before she lets go, index finger catching on his lower lip as she pulls away–“Everything else, you only use your mouth.”

—

Cody is used to waking up in the morning and being used as living, breathing furniture; Thea’s laptop balanced on his pecs, her paperwork on his abs, and herself curled up or sprawled over his lap like a cat–confident of her claim, but fluidly forming to the space. At least there isn’t a cup of coffee on him this time.

“No, I don’t care what Hendricks’ plans are, get him in that meeting today any way you can,” Thea says into the cellphone jammed between her shoulder and jaw, hands typing furiously away, “He owes us for last quarter’s budget meeting–he’s lucky he still has a job, much less his department. Remind him of that, and tell him if he doesn’t show up then he won’t have either,” she huffs, irritated, a full throated whoosh of air, no doubt distorting painfully into the call.

Cody doesn’t move, careful not to dislodge her or her things, but he strokes a hand up Thea’s side–reveling in the feel of bare skin–gentle enough as to not be distracting but firm enough not to tickle.

She glances to him, noting his calm expectant smile, before shooting him one of her own, “Yes, thank you, Sam. I’ll see you later,” she finishes, before hanging up and setting the phone on top of her makeshift desk.

“Stressful day already?” He asks, both hands gripping her sides, groping their way upwards; fingers skimming across ribs, teasing around the curve of her breasts, the hardening peaks of nipple, “I can help with that,” he offers, before stroking back down again, the jut of her hipbones fitting perfectly into the palms of his hands. Still, none of her things move from where she placed them on him.

“I know you can,” she says, shifting around to straddle him, knees digging into the mattress, the warm press of their thighs against each other. Already Thea can feel the shape of his cock, the curve of it firm beneath her hand, twitching and swelling in time to his pulse.

She gives it a squeeze, enjoying the way his expression blows open and wanton; but she’s far more proud of the way he bites back a moan, the aborted almost thrust of his hips seeking additional friction.

“Unfortunately,” she sighs, pulling her hand away, as if she really were too busy to indulge, “I have so many things to do before my meeting today,” she smirks, “I couldn’t possibly postpone for a fuck,” she punctuates with a roll of her own hips, brushing against the head of his dick. It leaves a smear of precum on her skin, but she ignores it in favor of the desperate look on his face.

He pants, a whine catching in his voice, “Who said anything about postponing?” he asks, even now staying so obediently still.

Thea’s grin widens, honest and pleased. Good behavior deserves a reward, and he does have a point: she’s always been good at multitasking.


	87. The Adventures of Jack and Ness ficlet (2016-02-18)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Adventures of Jack and Ness are unrelated stories revolving around best friends in vastly different worlds and situations.

One is fire, the other ice; and how terribly cliché that makes them and their relationship. How weak and foolish and naive.

Because fire and ice are extremes, forces of nature capable of destroying anything with their power. But combined they sputter and melt and cease to be anything but puddles and steam.

They are opposites and there is no way to combine their strengths–only cancel each other out. They are fire and ice and in no world can they be together and succeed.

—

He laughs–a jarring, abrupt thing more cough than levity. He’s been beaten and belittled and betrayed and all he can think of right now is how funny this all is. How hilarious it is that his death is entirely his own fault.

“You idiot, get up!” Ness shouts at him, tugging at his arm, trying to pull him to his feet. But everything hurts, and she is small and has no leverage. Jack stays on the ground.

“We have to go now,” she tries again, actual worry threading into her voice, “They’re coming, Jack, we have to go now!”

He deserves this, yes, but she doesn’t. For her, he wobbles into a crouch, which is enough.

She drops down under his arm, bodily hauling the both of them upright, running and dragging and trying.

He laughs again–feels a stab of pain in his lungs, but laughs regardless–in surprise.

They might actually make it.

—

She believes. She wouldn’t act if she didn’t believe. Everything for her is straightforward, she does as she says and says as she thinks and thinks only the truth.

Or her perception of it.

Ness believes and that is enough to save their lives. Enough to get them away from this wretched scene of mayhem, to someplace where they can rest and restock and heal.

It won’t be enough to set them free–they will always be hunted, chased down until they are finally caught–but it is a temporary respite. Enough to matter, enough to believe in.

—

Maybe they are fire and ice. Maybe they do weaken each other–dousing and thawing until they are no longer things to be reckoned with. Maybe there is no world in which they succeed.

But maybe they are not fire and ice. Maybe they are a spectrum of heat, or the lack thereof. It is not about being outliers, but about coming together and reaching equilibrium.

Maybe in this world, they don’t need to succeed. Maybe all they have to do is be enough.


	88. The Adventures of Jack and Ness ficlet (2016-03-14)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Adventures of Jack and Ness are unrelated stories revolving around best friends in vastly different worlds and situations.

Jack is in the middle of agreeing with Ness when he turns to look at her and immediately notices, “What are you doing with your eyebrows?”

Ness, whose eyebrows could not be raised higher to her hairline unless she shaved and drew them as such, tries to physically push them down with her hand. It doesn’t work, “Nothing. My eyebrows aren’t doing anything,” she denies, unbelievably.

“And… why are you smiling so much?” Jack continues with all the suspicion that is his due for being best friends with Ness Desmond since childhood.

“I am not–how dare you!” she says, faking offense through her smile.

“You did something,” Jack accuses trying to rewind their conversation back but if he’s going to be honest he wasn’t really listening. What did he almost agree to?

“It’s not what I did,” Ness says, no longer trying to hide the way her face has stretched open and pleased, “It’s what you’re going to do.”

—

In his defense, the last time Jack spoke to anyone that wasn’t Ness or his coworkers and students in an entirely professional capacity, it was his parents disowning him for being gay.

So…

It shouldn’t be surprising that he’s conflicted about being set up on a date with another man by his best friend.

The first part alone twists something inside him, that part that has always been torn between wanting to be a good son and wanting to be happy. The part that has, for the past several years, been entirely smothered over the lack of either.

The second part? Well. He loves Ness, of course he does. And he trusts her with his life. Probably.

But his love life?

Well.

There’s a reason he avoids high school reunions like the plague and it’s not because of the terrible food and music.

—

“God damnit,” Jack mutters to himself when he walks into the restaurant and spots the only other man with the agreed upon yellow rose matching Jack’s. “God damnit, Ness, he’s hot,” he mutters again, even though there’s no way she’d be able to hear him.

Maybe the guy has a crappy personality.

Then he looks up and smiles at Jack, making something in his chest wobble. Maybe it’s some sort of late onset asthma.

Ness would never set Jack up with an asshole.

“God damnit,” Jack says for the third time before going over and taking the empty seat at the table.

Or maybe it’s some kind of hope.


	89. Untitled (2016-07-03)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Devil sells his soul to you.

You’re walking down Mission Street, eyes on the cracked cement under your equally threadbare shoes, when your shoulder smacks into something.

“Sorry,” you mutter, without looking up, because that’s just asking for further confrontation which you’re really not in the mood for. It has led you to apologizing to inanimate objects before–lamps and signposts and, once, an inflatable gorilla mascot declaring _BIG SAVINGS!_ –but you’re not that easily embarrassed. Anyway, better safe than sorry.

“No worries,” a voice says which rules out the inanimate object possibility. Apparently, despite your foolproof strategy, the person you’ve bumped into decides to engage.

God damn it.

“Blasphemy,” the person adds in a different voice. Same person, different voice… somehow?

You look up.

The person at first is taller than you, blonde hair, broad shoulders. Smiling with somehow charmingly crooked teeth. But you blink and suddenly that smile becomes decorated with braces, framed in a face with freckles that weren’t there a moment ago. And then the blonde hair turns brown, the eye level dropping down to meet yours.

You blink again, new appearance. Same person, you’re sure of it.

“Can I interest you in a new investment opportunity?” They say which, no matter how weirdly mesmerizing yet nauseating the constantly shifting features, is an automatic signal to leave.

“No thanks,” you mutter and sidestep the person. “I don’t carry cash,” you add, because it’s both true and has deterred solicitors previously.

“Oh, no, nothing like that,” the person continues, walking backwards to keep up with you. Which is highly off-putting. As is the way their voice deepens, accents shed like molting feathers from a sick pigeon.

“Not interested,” you add, a little more firmly, speeding up your pace. You shove one hand into your bag’s outer pocket, where the pepper spray your older sister gave you in a fit of overprotectiveness has sat unused for the past four months. Hey, better safe than sorry, right?

The person’s height has increased again, legs and stride lengthening in turn, and you can’t shake them off. With your eyes on the ground you notice how their shoes change too–high heels one second, boots the next.

“Whatever you have in your pocket will be fine,” they say, less charming and more desperate, which is just enough to make you pause. Not seriously consider it, though, because your keys and phone and wallet are in your pockets and that would just be stupid. Might as well sign your soul away.

“No,” you say simply, and walk away…

… or at least, you try to.

“ ** _Don’t you walk away from me!_** ” they say, and now you’re not sure what their voice is like or what they look like because you can feel them somehow, the command scratching away in your brain and in your lungs. Words beyond sound, fear written down deep in your bones. The pepper spray falls harmlessly from your hands.

And yet, despite it all, you still think they sound terribly desperate.

“I don’t even know what you’re selling,” you say, because sometimes sensibility has to give way for stupidity.

The person circles you, frozen in place as you are, appearance ever shifting but the same expression of consideration on their faces.

“That pocket,” they say, pointing at the zipper of a pocket awkwardly situated just off of the right armpit of your jacket. You don’t really use that pocket for much. Actually, you don’t really remember what’s in there. “I’ll trade it to you for the contents of that pocket.”

Considering what happened last time you said no, you reach over to unzip the pocket and pull out what appears to be a half-filled packet of tissues, two throat lozenges, and an oblong ball of lint.

Skeptically, you hold it out to the person.

“Excellent,” they smile, looking far too pleased by the remnants of your last battle against the flu. They pluck the detritus from your hand and in exchange give you what looks like a… you’re actually not sure what to call it. A slimy lump of coal? A sickly goth fireball? What the hell is this?

“You’re not too far off,” they say, near manic with glee, “with the last one, that is.” They smirk, bright and smug and waiting for a punch to the face, before suddenly disappearing.

Frustratingly, you now wish you had a tissue to wrap this thing up. You settle for putting it in your empty tupperware from lunch and wiping your palm uncomfortably on the thigh of your jeans.

That done, you resume your walk–no need to make your delay longer than necessary.

It takes two weeks for you to realize what exactly you bought.

And that has more to do with the angry archangel banging on your door at three in the morning, while an unrepentant shapeshifting devil takes refuge on your second-hand armchair.

God damn it.


	90. Untitled (2016-07-14)

You don’t remember the moments surrounding your fall.

You remember the speed–pavement beneath your wheels, trees blurring by, the wind stinging your cheeks and pulling at your clothes.

You remember riding, then flying, but you don’t remember falling. Crashing. Tumbling across cement and dirt and coming to a stop because of a tree.

You remember laughing out of joy, whooping because you’ve never felt more alive. You don’t remember screaming out of fear or crying in pain.

You don’t remember how you ended up in the dirt, tears streaming down your cheeks as you blink your eyes open to worried faces.

Your sister on your left, so careful not to touch you, not to make things worse. A stranger on your right, checking your pulse, your spine, your life.

“Do you remember me asking you questions?” he says, and you say maybe, you say yes, because he is asking one right now and maybe you remember giving your name and your location and your age but maybe that’s the first thing you remember after waking up.

You remember his name is John, a nurse taking a vacation, riding on a tour bus which is now waiting patiently by the curb.

Your cousin comes now, his voice calling out, but you don’t turn to look at him because your head hurts and your neck hurts and you’re scared, too.

You were having so much fun and now you’re scared. Now you’re crying. Now you’re so cold, you’re shivering.

You don’t understand. You were having fun.

You don’t remember what happened.


	91. Untitled (2016-07-16)

There’s this guy.

And, no, it’s not that kind of story, but it’s a story and it wants to be told.

So there’s this guy.

And he’s a little weird, but maybe that’s just because to me he doesn’t make sense and maybe I’m the weird one. But if I had to describe him, it would be:

Ephemeral, yet constant.

And how can that be, you might ask, for aren’t those opposites? How can someone be both fleeting yet continuous, ever changing yet the same?

The only words I’ve ever said to this guy were…

Actually, no…

The only words he’s ever said to me are “Do you see it?”

And perhaps I answered, but most likely I didn’t–too bewildered and caught off guard to respond properly. But that’s the closest thing to a conversation we’ve ever had, and I find it hilarious and sad.

Because in the book that would be my life? He is always there. He flits in and out of my family and friends’ lives, a name repeated so often that it gains a life of its own. A character mentioned in every chapter, but never for more than a few sentences.

How strange.

Collecting anecdotes of this guy I’ve never really talked to. Knowing details of his life that I don’t really care for. Like being roommates with a stranger you never see or hear, but can infer the existence of through dirty dishes and moved furniture.

Tangential lines whose single point of contact wasn’t even all that meaningful.

“Do you see it?”

Do I see it? See what? What does it matter?

We are looking in different directions, looking for different signs, only aware of each other the same way passers by in a crowd are–another body, a step to the side, an almost dance with an almost partner to an almost song that no one can hear.

There’s this guy.

He’s weird, a familiar stranger, the same configuration of letters reappearing on different pages.

But that’s just how life works.


	92. Word Prompts (B24): Blink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> related to Chapters 4, 9, 39, and 40

Stepping through the doors of Cat’s Meow is like walking onto a movie set or into a circus tent. There’s something almost not quite real about it, a carefully crafted set of lies, but one willingly taken–rose colored glasses within these four walls–as if reality has been tilted just slightly to show props and gimmicks underneath.

Plausible deniability would state that Cat’s Meow is a restaurant–or a cafe, or a bar–but those who know the truth, well. They can easily see it for what it is.

For those who don’t? Well, first timers get special treatment.

“Take a seat,” the man says, curling one warm hand around your elbow, a gentle and feather-light touch. He’s dressed in black and white and maybe plausible deniability would say that he’s a waiter, or a busboy, or the bartender, but you’ve never really been one for denial.

“You’re not going to want to miss this,” the man continues, guiding you to a seat, the plush leather almost welcoming you. The booth is meant for more than just one person, but you’ve come here alone.

Most people come here alone, but the booths get filled up anyway.

“You can call me Porcelain,” the man says, sitting beside you–but not too close, you notice–body heat just barely felt through your clothes and empty space.

Maybe it’s an apt name, you think, for his skin certainly does look as smooth as porcelain, but you think he’s far less likely to break.

“Andrew,” you offer back, because it’s only polite, never mind the place you’ve found yourself in (plausible deniability, you didn’t know, this is your first time here).

“Well, Andrew,” Porcelain says, with a sweetly curved smile on his mouth, “I’ll be your server tonight, unless you’d like someone else?”

“No,” you say, without needing to consider, “You’ll do quite nicely.”

That smile curves even more, a dimple appearing as if in punctuation. “Oh, will I?” Porcelain asks, more teasing than seeking confirmation.

“Yes,” you say simply.

After all, you know what you came here for.


	93. Word Prompts (A35): Apology

Anja spots him in the crowd, nearly a foot taller than everyone around him, treading awkwardly like a giraffe on uneven ground.

(She laughs and laughs and laughs.)

When Tucker finally reaches her, he stands only slightly impatiently off to the side for her to catch her breath.

When she does, she punches him in the hip.

“You asshole,” she says, “Shaving your head alone is not going to cut it.”

He silently holds out a box of Ghirardelli chocolate.

“Closer,” she capitulates, taking the box and walking away. She could just weave through the crowd, but she takes care not to walk too fast and leave him behind.

He has a lot of making up to do, after all.

(She carefully ignores the feeling of his eyes on the long row of stitches on her scalp.)

—

It wasn’t an accident.

Though that isn’t to say her injury was on purpose either.

Both of them knew the risks going in, the likelihood of danger, and even if they had known for certain this was the outcome, truth be told, they very well would have done it again.

(Kids, you know? Tucker’s always been a softie for kids.)

Which isn’t to say that Anja wouldn’t have willingly gotten bashed across the head to save a bunch of kids, but its safe to say that Anja’s in it more to catch the bad guys than to protect random innocents.

(Hey, whatever works, right?)

Now if only she could convince Tucker into letting her back on the case. Desk work may be boring as fuck, but it’s better than having to listen to her brother-in-law point out the horrible flaws in her lifestyle.

—

They come into work the next day with matching (horrific) shaves and two boxes of donuts, because their entire squad are just as bad at controlling impulses when it comes to food and their dentists hate them.

(Except for Miranda who is married to her dentist and has perfect teeth to show for it. Nonetheless, she sneaks three whole donuts because she’s a weirdo who keeps mouthwash in her desk drawer to prevent her wife from finding out about her terrible eating habits).

Anja is hailed as a hero and Tucker is hailed as said hero’s sidekick which is their due.

(Okay, so, ‘hailed’ is a little bit strong of a word. Basically, everyone smacks Anja on the back in congratulations–which is still super bruised those assholes–and Tucker is in charge of their paperwork until all the letters on her desktop stop wobbling dangerously)

She loves her job.


	94. The Adventures of Jack and Ness ficlet (2016-07-22)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> related to Chapters 32 and 47

“You’re sweet,” she says with a curl on her lip, reaching out to pat him on the cheek. It’s a whole lot of patronizing but she has very soft hands and also she smells nice, so he leans into it.

“I hate you,” she also adds, though given she could just be smacking him instead of petting him, that seems to be unlikely.

“Well why don’t you tell me how you really feel,” he says.

She laughs and pulls away and gestures at the door, “Get out of my sight, Jack.”

“You know you love me!” He calls out, even as he scurries to obey.

No need to piss off V more than he already has.

—

Ness is very serious about her job. She is dedicated and loyal and hard working and etc etc

Whatever.

The point is, when she’s working all other things fall to the wayside. Nothing is more important than getting the job done in the most effective and efficient way possible.

She just wishes, in this case, it didn’t involve sitting quietly for three hours in a closet that smells like vomit and urine and, strangely, industrial strength nacho cheese if such a thing exists.

It’s the best place to hide their monitors for the bugs given they’ve hardwired everything so no one can just jump onto their signal, but it still smells horrible and she hates everything.

Next time, she’s call dibs on the babysitting job and Jack can sit in a closet that smells like the worst post-frat party ever.

—

It’s 2:37 AM when Jack shoots upright in his bed and hisses, “It’s a time travel paradox.”

From the other shitty, tiny bed in their shitty tiny motel room, Ness throws one of her lumpy pillows at him.

“Shut up,” she groans back, shoving her head underneath her remaining lumpy pillow. She’s already vowed to use hand sanitizer over her entire body when she wakes up–it’s way too early to worry about head lice. “ Go back to sleep.”

The pillow isn’t much of a deterrence to Jack, given it is just a pillow and he’s walked off much worse like, say, bullets and things, but he takes it as the warning it is and flops back onto his bed.

He spends the next four hours trying to figure out how and why their universe hasn’t imploded yet and fails spectacularly.


	95. Untitled (2016-07-28)

“Oh.”

The door opens. The dark room suddenly cut through with light from the hallway, the speaker’s silhouette breaking it up into irregular beams.

Tangled on the floor, Terry and Marcus startle, faces jerking away from each other hurriedly.

Stunned, they stare.

Harry stares back. Realizes she’s staring. Quickly looks away.

“O-oh,” she says again, flush climbing high on her cheeks. “I-I didn’t mean to interrupt, I’ll just…” she steps back, hand reaching for the doorknob. Before she door clicks shut she adds, “Use protection, little brother!”

Still stunned, they stare.

The room goes dark once more.

“Oh my god!” Terry shouts, practically flinging himself away from Marcus who is gagging and shuddering away as well.

“She thinks we were having sex!”

—

Terry and Marcus were not, in fact, having sex.

Mostly because Terry and Marcus did, in fact, hate each other.

(And while both of them knew hate sex was, in fact, a thing that existed, neither of them actually wanted to dwell to long on that matter.)

Terry and Marcus were, instead, trying to beat the living daylights out of each other in secret. Not that their animosity for each other was much of a secret, but Harry liked to live in a world where conflicts could be solved either by friendship or baked goods, and seeing as how Harry is both Terry’s older sister and Marcus’ best friend they’ve both grown up trying their best not to disappoint her. Or otherwise have cupcakes forcibly shoved down their throats.

(It was Harry’s 8th and Terry’s 6th birthday party–always combined because they were both born within a week of each other–when Marcus developed an acute fear of blue frosting for the rest of his life)

On the one hand, both men hated each other’s guts. On the other, if they didn’t play along with Harry’s delusion for at least a little while, they might end up the first double homicide via pastries and that would just be embarrassing.

So fake relationship it was.

(It’s not like either of them hadn’t noticed how attractive the other had become, and maybe in a different life they’d be each other’s type.

If it weren’t for their god awful personalities, that is.)


	96. Gilded Living (2016-07-31)

“For god’s sake,” Julia gripes, running a hand through her hair in frustration, “Seduce the boy or kidnap him. I don’t care, Peter! Just get him out of that tower!”

Peter, rolling his eyes at his sister’s theatrics, doesn’t say anything. As if getting one teenager out of a tower is going to be anything but a piece of cake.

Three months later, trapped in the form of a bright yellow canary and mulishly tweeting an echo of Kane’s song, Peter thinks he could not have been more wrong.

—

Every good fairy tale starts with Once Upon a Time and ends with They Lived Happily Ever After, mostly because no one knows how long ago it happened and what actually happened–what were the consequences of each story and what it might lead to.

And what happens when someone else’s living begins.

—

A generation ago, there used to be two fairies in the kingdom. One was known for blessing babies with magical gifts and helping people find their one true love. The other was known for cursing the kingdom’s enemies and creating the thorny wall along the border.

She had protected the kingdom, had been loved in her own way, even if that love had also included some fear.

Until her sister died.

And then there was only one fairy left.

—

Kane is, technically, not a prince. Sure, his mother was a princess and, yes, his grandparents are the king and queen and, alright, if something were to happen to all of his uncles, aunts, and cousins then he would be next in line for the throne.

But he’s not a prince.

Really.

His father makes wagons for a living. And although Kane has never been all that good at the family business, he contributes in his own way.

Or, well, he used to.

—

In addition to Peter, the irritated canary, Kane’s fellow tower inhabitants are:

Agnes, the hyper cat–previously Agnes, daughter of the neighboring kingdom’s general and hostage for said father’s good behavior,

John, the clumsy turtle–previously John, a knight errant who tried to free what he believed was a princess trapped in the tower,

Elena, the lazy fish–previously Elena, the kingdom’s most beautiful young woman who asked to for a safe place to hide from a nobleman,

and Bromley, who is in charge of making sure Kane’s every want and need is met by order of the fairy, and who is also a were-sheep.

The only thing Kane is not given is his freedom.

—

The fairy–for there is only one now–does mean well, in her own way. Much like she does good, in her own way, and is loved by the kingdom, in her own way.

The problem is that, with Kane, she’s trying to take care of him in her sister’s way, and that’s where things go wrong.

—

Julia is not a fairy. What she is, though, is a disowned noblewoman and a pretty damned talented magician in her own right.

All she needs is a Tower, and she’ll be powerful enough to spite her family by becoming the kingdom’s Court Magician.

Too bad she picked the wrong tower.


	97. Untitled (2016-08-01)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Humans have perfected the person/computer interface, allowing you to download skills and knowledge instead of going through traditional schooling. Lacking the necessary funds, you decide to bootleg the skill you’ve been wanting.

Maia wakes up with a jolt, limbs flailing out as if electrocuted. She ends up punching the wall and spends the next handful of seconds groaning in pain.

Once that’s done, she checks the time–half past three in the morning, fantastic–and spends another handful of seconds hating the world.

“Are you unwell?” Rhys asks, his translucent head sticking out of her nightstand–empty eye socket and all, “We have another guest, but I can tell him to wait until the morrow.”

She’d prefer it if they’d wait until a more decent time so she can get some sleep, but apparently ghosts can’t move on unless it’s between midnight and sunrise. Lucky her.

Another handful of seconds screaming into her pillow and she’s good.

“Let’s do this,” she says, clawing her way out of her gloriously comfortable bed, and standing woozily in her ratty old high school class t-shirt and some boxer shorts with tigers on them. “I’m going to exorcise the shit out of this ghost.”

Rhys, having gotten used to her lack of decorum over the months of acting as her spiritual guide, merely sighs.

Hey, beggars can’t be choosers.

—

It’s a funny story, actually.

Well, no, it’s just kind of stupid.

See, so, Maia already used her allotted government sponsored downloads by getting a bachelor’s degree in philosophy which seemed like a good idea at the time until she realized the only thing someone can do with a bachelor’s degree in philosophy–besides signing up for a master’s program in philosophy which just seems like postponing the matter–is, apparently, being a receptionist for her aunt’s New Age House of Healing.

Really.

And, it’s, well. Not all that bad really. She doesn’t hate her job, and some of the stuff is kind of interesting in a charmingly hokey sort of way.

It’s just that it’s kind of boring and also, since she’s literally just sitting on her ass the entire day, she’s starting to get unhealthy. Any muscle tone she had before has kind of just melted into flab and it probably doesn’t help that next door is a bakery and she eats there every day.

Which is why she wanted to download an exercising app.

Exercising. With an e. Not an o.

Curse her cheapskate tendencies.


	98. Untitled (2016-08-18)

This is what it means to be the child of immigrants:

You eat the food, but don’t know the language spoken over meals. You have the principles, but not the history behind them. You have the ethnicity drawn out on your skin, but not the land of your ancestors.

You only have half your parents’ culture, desperately trying to fill in the gaps with what you see around you. And so you end up with an amalgamation, not quite Other but still not the same.

—

When nostalgia is the most positive emotion you’ve had in a long time, you may want to consider a lifestyle change.

But it’s hard to remember what it’s like to not be tired and angry and sad. You find yourself nostalgic for more than just food and places and friends. You find yourself nostalgic for yourself, the yourself you used to be before.

You find that summer makes it worse, the stretch of daylight mocking and cruel. But maybe that’s a lie. Maybe you are just being nostalgic for winter–romanticizing the briskness of the air and the cool rain on a parched land. Maybe you hated the cold wind, maybe you hated the constant damp and you’ll think that you miss the warmth and brightness of summer.

You look out your window and yearn for better days.

—

This is not your place. A space you rent, a room of your own, but its not yours.

You can hear the snores of other people through your wall, you tread lightly in common areas, only speak when spoken to.

It’s been a long time since you sang out loud and you think that’s a shame.


	99. Word Prompts (F45): Found

“I guess I just miss you, is the problem.” A brush of fingertips against smooth stone, as gentle and affectionate as a kiss.

“It’s not the same without you,” he confides, before crouching down and placing the small bouquet by the plaque. Straightening again, he can’t help but read over the engraving–years and a name, so simple, a poor substitute.

“Goodbye, love, I’ll see you again next weekend.”

—

A migraine is building behind your eyes, pressure and heat and sludgy solid sickness. It’s been a while since you’ve had one–not since you were a teenager–and you thought your were done with them for good.

Then again, you did take a tire iron to the back of the head, so it’s not like it’s your fault.

A wet trickle makes it’s way down your neck–blood, most likely–and you’d like to wipe it away except that your hands are tied behind your back and you’ve never been particularly flexible.

“This is the last time I do a favor for Jenny.”

Just as well, considering this one’s posthumous anyway.

—

Raoul had always loved her, from the first moment he laid eyes on her. Bright smile and crinkled eyes and a smear of dirt across one cheek. He had admired the way her legs looked in that floral skirt, the curve of her back easily accommodating of the sledge hammer across her shoulders.

Just some renovation, she had said, and Raoul–the naive, lovestruck idiot that he was, newly moved into the apartment across the hall–had nodded and tried not to make too much a fool of himself.

Too late.

But Jenny had always had a fondness for fools.

—

“Oh, sure, watch over your boyfriend. No big, he’s an accountant, what’s the worst he could get into?” You growl, shifting your arms, your wrists, your hands futilely–desperate to escape. “Getting into business with corrupt cops, that’s what! Fucking hell, Jenny, you have shitty taste in guys.”

You might have a concussion, what with the irritability and talking to a dead person, but then again, anyone would be irritable in this situation. And you wouldn’t put it past her to somehow be able to listen in after her death.

A rattle of chains grabs your attention, makes you quiet and cautious. You don’t actually know who hit you over the head and tied you up.

“Hello?” A voice calls, one irritatingly familiar to you for all that you’ve never actually had a conversation with the idiot. “I’m here to settle my girlfriend’s debt.”

Now both of you are going to end up dead. Goddamnit, Jenny.


	100. Lark and Elm - Word Prompts (L25): Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> continues in following chapters

Lark takes a deep breath, eyes falling closed and shoulders straightening back. The weight of her armor has never felt heavier–a part of her wishes she could just take it off, dig into her own skin and muscles and nerves and be free of it–but this is something that will always be a part of her.

She shakily exhales, can feel the burn of tears behind her eyelids but wills them not to fall. Elm trots over to her–his own armor clanking with every step.

‘Time to leave now,’ Elm says to her through the new bond that has flared to life only hours ago.

“I can’t, Elm, I can’t,” Lark says, every word keeping her feet rooted to the ground. She doesn’t know why this is so much more difficult than pulling her master’s body off of Elm’s back and burying him in the ground, but actually leaving him behind?

It feels like a betrayal.

'Yes,’ Elm says, stepping in front of her to bodily block her view of the newly dug grave. 'Yes, you can.’

He nudges her. And maybe for anyone else, a nudge from a two ton mass of magical horse and armor would knock them on their ass, but for all that her training is incomplete, she’s a magical knight with armor of her own, too. This is as gentle as Elm gets.

“What do I do now, Elm?” she asks, hauling herself onto his back when his nudging becomes pointed and accompanied by the thought-feeling of impatience.

He turns them around, away, but doesn’t begrudge her one last look back.

'We do what we’ve always done,“ Elm says to her, flashes of images from missions she’s been on and those she hasn’t, the ones Elm had with her master before she became his squire. 'We rid the world of evil and tyranny…’

”… and bring peace to those in need and honor to the Order.“ she finishes by rote.

She pauses, runs her hand down his neck. "I think I’m going to need help with this, Elm.”

—

Night falls, they set up camp. Well, they try to set up camp, but they can’t agree on a good spot–Elm’s criteria mainly consists of the quantity of grass he can graze on, while Lark tries to fall back on her training and find a defensible spot.

They’re interrupted.

Howls, multiple, coming in fast.

“Oh shit,” Lark spits out, leaping onto Elm’s back once more.

'Language,’ Elm chides, for all that he’s already begun galloping away.

Elm is fast–all mounts chosen the Order have to meet basic requirements and are trained to be even more impressive–but he’s mostly built for battle, not racing, and the wolves do not have panicking riders slowing them down.

Lark risks a glance backwards, sees the wolves gaining. Correction, they’re not wolves–they’re hellhounds.

Three flanking Elm’s left, two on his right.

“I don’t think we can outrun them!”

'Well, you’re a knight, aren’t you?’ Elm snipes back, and he doesn’t need to sound so pissy about it.

Lark summons her swords–she’s not very good with her shield yet, but swords are easy enough. They appear: glowing and lavender and the last things these hellhounds will ever see.

Which is true enough; but she only kills two of them.

The other three fall at someone else’s hand.


	101. Lark and Elm ficlet (2016-09-19)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> continues from previous chapter

Elm lips angrily at her hair, now unbound when one of the hellhounds singed off her tie. Also, significantly shorter.

‘I could have handled that one,’ Elm snorts, the burst of air warm against the sweat cooling on her skin.

“It was in your blindspot,” Lark argues, rubbing pointedly but fondly at his forelock.

'Still could have handled it,’ Elm refutes, giving one last ticklish lipping, before coming around in front of her and urging her on his back.

They look in the direction of where the three other hellhounds had been–before they were scooped up and taken away in some giant flying creature’s talons.

“Should… should we follow?” Lark asks, still so uncertain at being in control. For all that Elm has more experience in this lifestyle, he himself is not a knight.

'Do we have to?’ Elm asks back, because they were going to set up camp before the hellhounds appeared, and now that the adrenaline is fading, he’s more tired not less.

“Well… it’s not tyranny,” Lark reasons absurdly, because she, too, is exhausted, “I mean… we’re not really at our best to take on whatever that was. Maybe tomorrow. In the morning. After some rest,” she says, uncertain.

Just as well: the decision is taken out of her hands when a massive shape–a somewhat familiar massive shape, for all that they had only seen it for a moment–descends in front of them.

Elm rears up on his hind legs, whinnies in warning, as Lark desperately tries to stay on.

'What the hell is this?’ Elm shrieks in her mind, forelegs kicking at the air in protection of his rider.

“Language!” Lark shrieks back because the only other thing that comes to mind is: I have no idea.


	102. Lark and Elm (2016-09-24)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> continues from previous chapter

The thing that lands in front of them is large, intimidating, and entirely metal. Like a wyvern, maybe, if wyverns were made of iron and steel.

It doesn’t move, though, and Elm settles down on all fours.

“Hello?” Lark calls out, in the strange twisting tongue of dragons. Human languages are easier, obviously, but the Order teaches each of its prospective knights all the languages of the land.

It doesn’t answer.

“Hello?” she tries again, in the dark language of monsters.

Again, it doesn’t answer.

“What do we do?” Lark asks Elm who is shifting nervously around, perfectly ready to run if necessary. Knights of the Order are capable of taking on powerful creatures–skilled knights can even take on a dragon, if need be–but Lark is only no longer a squire out of technicality, and Elm is more than capable of figuring out their odds.

Before Elm can respond, a hiss comes out from the metal creature as what looks to be a large maw begins to open.

Lark summons her sword and her best attempt at a shield, the lavender glow a comforting contrast to the red light coming from the creature’s mouth. Lark is impervious to fire–but only normal fire, not magical fire–Elm has less than that.

The metal creature continues to hiss, the mouth opening wider and wider. But instead of a view into the bellows of a magical fire-breathing creature, Lark and Elm are treated with the sight of… a person inside the metal creature… just sitting.

‘It’s not a creature,’ Elm says to her, though the bravado shines through, 'It’s… giant magical armor?’

Well, neither she nor Elm are unfamiliar with the idea of magical armor, though their armor is to scale with their size.

“Howdy,” the person inside the giant armor says, lifting an odd looking hat in greeting. It’s no formal bow, but it’s also not a magical fireball to the face so Lark will take it.

“How dee?” Lark responds, in confusion.

“Come on now,” the person says, almost cajoling, “You can speak Standard. I heard you talking to your horse.”

Elm snorts, affronted. 'I’m not your horse. If anything, you’re my knight.’

“I don’t know what standard is,” Lark says, instead of responding to Elm, “But I can understand what you’re saying.”

A mental nudge from Elm prompts her to add, “And so can Elm. And he doesn’t appreciate you calling him my horse. I’m his knight.”

The person hops out of his giant armor and walks over to them, slow and obvious and hands out placatingly.

“Alright,” he says, easy enough with a shrug. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen a horse, but that sounds about right.”

Elm lets the person pet him for a brief moment before snorting and pulling away, professional.

“I’m Tag,” the person says, “Short for Taggart, and that’s Duchess,” he adds with a wave over at the giant armor.

For a second, Lark and Elm share a flare of confusion–is it not giant armor after all?–before the person, Tag, continues.

“And if this is Elm, who are you?”

Lark hesitates, but he did help them with the hellhounds, and he’s not doing anything threatening. And besides,

“I’m Lark, a Knight of the Order of Dawn”

Knights are not afraid of anything.


	103. Lark and Elm (2016-09-30)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> continues from previous chapter

Tag and Duchess–who is giant armor, but giant armor that can talk?–are part of a group that camped not too far away from where Lark and Elm were originally.

“We saw those mutts chasing after you and decided to help out,” Tag says, walking beside them after having sent Duchess ahead. Lark is walking, too, to give the already tired Elm a break. “Those critters already set one of my friends on fire.”

Lark glances at him in alarm.

“Nah, he’s fine. Actually, he’s a bit of a nutjob, so he might have enjoyed it.”

Elm also sends a thought-feeling of bewilderment her way.

“I’m just joking,” Tag says, which would be believable if it didn’t follow a long moment of silence. “About the enjoying it part. He is actually a little bit nuts, though, but that’s ‘cause he’s seem some shit.”

'Battle fatigue,’ Elm says to Lark. She nods in understanding: her master had nightmares sometimes, of missions long passed.

“Don’t let that scare you off,” Tag says, interpreting her silence as fear. “He’s not a bad guy.”

“I’m not scared,” she says, chin held high, “You just talk too much.”

Tag stops, and after a pause–in which Lark realizes what she said and slaps a hand over her mouth, and Elm gives a whicker of secondhand embarrassment–so do they.

“I, uh, I,” she stammers. It was a rude thing to say and she shouldn’t have said it, but she’s not going to apologize for telling the truth.

Tag starts laughing. “You’ll fit in just fine,” he says, “the others say the same thing at least twice a day.”

—

The others of Tag and Duchess’ camp are as odd and, somehow, odder that she expected.

Geoffrey, the one that Tag called a nutjob, had greeted Lark with a polite handshake and Elm with an affectionate kiss. On the mouth. Elm, irritated at Lark’s response of uncontrollable laughter, went to a far corner and sulkily grazed.

There was also Doc who wasn’t really named Doc but actually named Lina and not actually a healer. When Lark asked why she was called Doc, the others of the camp glanced at each other and distracted her by introducing the last member of their group.

“Why is he tied up like that?” Lark asks, eyeing the sleeping body hanging upside down from another giant armor. According to Duchess, this one doesn’t talk, and thus is inferior to her.

The group shares another glance, before Doc speaks up, uncertainly, “He’s more comfortable this way?”

“Speaking of hitting the hay,” Tag says, even though no one spoke of such a thing, “It’s late, and we just fought off a pack of those hot doggies, so we should all get some rest.”

Not a very good distraction, but Lark is very tired and lets it slide.


	104. Word Prompts (S68): Spade

Shadows and concrete and metal and beams of light spilling diagonally across the ground. Dark stains and rusting pipes and crumbling plaster dusting everything with pale sugar coatings.

“You got it?” he asks, storm coming in, soft and treacherous as the cloudy gray sky.

“Yeah, I got it,” you say, pocketing the card, careful not to put fingerprints on anything.

Gloves and blades and red red ink that scrawls so smoothly on the sealed boxes.

A motorcycle sits in the corner of the warehouse, unused but not forgotten.

Buzzing–electricity in the wires–and the sound of machinery powering up. Next door gears turn, loud and rhythmic, barely muffled by the shared wall. Four o'clock.

No one is expecting you until noon.

“I’ll see you in two weeks,” he says.

You scoff, “Maybe.”

—

Three years ago, you were approached on the train. Heading between work and home, just one of many mindless commuters.

But you were approached, out of the dozens on that train, and to this day you still don’t know why.

The new job is better–better pay, better hours–and you no longer have to join the herds of commuters.

Your wardrobe is entirely dark colors now, though.

—

“Shit,” you mutter, not too loud, but your friends pause and look over at you in concern anyway. You’re not much one for swearing–as far as they know.

“You okay?” Jenny asks, a soft fluttering hand on your sleeve. As gentle and fickle as a butterfly.

“Yeah, fine, sorry,” you say, each word a bullet punching through paper, “I just forgot something at work,” sheepish smile now, there we go, see how everyone dismisses the interruption.

Lisa rolls her eyes, clears her throat, all attention back on her, “Now that that’s settled,” she says, exaggerated impatience making everyone giggle, “Let’s start playing!”

The game is five card stud.

You left your favorite pair of shoes at the last location.

You’re never getting those back again.

—

Once, your family asked you what exactly you did for work.

“Operations,” you say, instead of draining your glass of wine, “Inventory and deliveries. My degree’s helpful,” you say with a shrug, which redirects the conversation towards your cousin Nathan who will not be budged away from his major in English literature.

It’s only when the topic has leaped another two more times–Nathan’s pothead girlfriend to Melissa’s impending wedding–do you take that drink.

Your family still thinks you work for a toy company.

—

Old, beaten up leather but still thick, still solid. Brown and mottled and the dimensions are off, but the jacket fits, even if not how intended–sleeves scrunched up and shoulders falling low.

Your new boots nearly match, but they creak, they’re stiff. You haven’t broken them in completely, but you find the added weight makes your steps feel more secure.

New gloves, too, only because your last ones had holes in them. A bit counterproductive, that. These ones have neon yellow stripes between the fingers, and you would be mad, except they don’t give you away as much as you thought they would, and it helps in low light situations.

Tomorrow morning you and a stranger are driving three hours east to a town you’ve never been to. Maybe, if you’re lucky, both of you will make the drive back in the evening.

You scuff your toe against the floor, the sound echoes in the warehouse. The light at the door flickers, struggles, on and off–you can see the green of grass growing through the cracks in the pavement outside.

You wonder what’s inside the boxes lining the walls.


	105. Untitled (2016-10-11)

Everyone has those days.

You know. Those days. Those horrible days when awful things just compound on each other and at the end of it, you’re going home in wet socks, shoes in a plastic bag, steps squelching and uncomfortable and a headache blazing through your brain.

You wake up still tired, and clumsier than the norm. You think, maybe, it’s just a poor night of sleep, you’ll adjust in a bit, maybe after you eat. You run into a wall, knock over a glass, glittering shards all over the floor.

Wake up, shake it off. Come on, get it together.

But then you get to work–the crowd of others commuting, radio playing a song you hate no matter which station you switch to–and it doesn’t get better.

Computer acting up, not even in a way you can fix. It’s hardware, not software, and there’s nothing to be done. Whatever, this was going to happen sooner or later, the company’s been meaning to get a replacement, you’ve been tasked with making back ups just in case for the past two months, but the supervisor still lectures you about it. As if you had taken a crowbar and smashed it in, rather than pushed a button and it failed to start.

Maybe after your break, just a quick one. Maybe you’re dehydrated, maybe you just need a breather.

Thirty minutes later, you’re in the warehouse; you’ve dropped a box on your foot, nearly tripped over a pallet, and if it weren’t for your new gloves you’d have a bleeding gash in your palm. As it is, there’s still a cut on your arm, sluggishly oozing bright red.

Supplies, that should be safe, right–off you go, to the suppliers, just drive safely you’ll be fine. Construction on the road and a moron stuck in the middle of an intersection, everyone honking their horns futilely as if that’ll help. It doesn’t.

You get to the suppliers, something’s been back ordered, you’ll have to come back in three days. Fine, at this point, you’ll take what you can get.

Outside you step in a six inch puddle somehow, never mind that it hasn’t rained in months and the entire state is in a drought. You grit your teeth and bear with it, hope to god it’s water you’ve stepped in. Slip off your sodden shoes and drive back in wet socks, pedals pressing back against your feet.

Incoming call, who could it be? Your least favorite client of course! Always so familiar–standing too close, trying to touch–constantly calling and sending emails, changing orders, asking how you are, requesting you in particular. You make sure you’re never alone during deliveries, and your coworkers acquiesce, but they don’t understand.

You know this day isn’t going to go better, but you just don’t want it to get worse.

Get home–surprise!–the landlord’s nephew is staying for a month in the room next to yours. You don’t actually mind: if it were any other day, it’d hardly be an inconvenience, but on this day it just builds up and you have to swallow down the irritation. They could have told you sooner. But rent is cheap, the location is nice, and you’ve just organized your room to your liking.

Shower, take some painkillers, go to sleep. Hope things are better tomorrow.


	106. Untitled (2016-10-13)

Sometimes I think about the phrase “forgive and forget” and I always laugh to myself because that doesn’t sound like me at all.

The best case scenario would be “forgive, but don’t forget” because forgiving is a choice, but forgetting isn’t. Even if forgetting were a choice, there are some things that shouldn’t be forgotten.

Someone that hurt me–oh, I’ll forgive them, if they’re someone important to me–but how do I know they won’t do it again in the future? How can I protect myself if I forget what you’ve done? Forgiveness doesn’t mean you’ve regained my trust, simply that I still want you in my life.

Then, I suppose, next would be “don’t forgive, don’t forget.” Some things shouldn’t have to be forgiven. Some things are too awful, too cruel, too terrible to forgive.

There’s a point where even your loved ones can let you down, a point when you have to take them out of your lives. And it’s important to remember why.

The worst, though, is what makes me laugh the most, though not in a happy way. Because the thing is, I feel like I’ve done this, I just don’t remember: “don’t forgive, forget.”

Keep my grudge burning in my gut, but don’t keep track of where it came from. Let that righteous anger stew until I have no idea what caused it in the first place.

Forgive and forget, isn’t that funny? Why would I ever do that?

—

It’s hard to tell how awful you’re being in the moment at that moment. Sometimes it takes hours, days, sometimes even years before you can gain enough objectivity to step back and tell yourself the truth.

I was awful. I was cruel. I was terrible.

But once you realize that, it hits you repeatedly. Sneaks up on you long after the matter has passed, long after you can make amends.

I’ve cut people from my life for far less, how could I ever expect better treatment from others. Wouldn’t they be better off without me?

And so I run, I leave. I let radio silence turn into distance turn into a steady goodbye. How long has it been since we spoke? Do we even count as friends anymore?

No, probably not.

But thanks for being my friend, then. Thanks for being with me, then. Thanks for the good memories, even if they’ve been punctuated by bad.

I don’t like saying sorry, because it always sounds like an excuse, but thanks I’ll give gladly even if it means goodbye.


	107. Untitled (2016-10-16)

(It starts with red.)

It’s not as if the world has lost color–you can still see things as you used to–it’s not a problem with your visual abilities, but it’s as if colors have lost meaning.

People talk about how certain colors are soothing, exciting, alluring. They talk about favorite colors and hated colors. As if colors were anything more than a minor detail.

You’ve forgotten what it’s like to be so moved by such a small thing.

(It starts with red.

The red of polka dots on white fabric.

The red on his cheeks, blushing so sweetly.

The red of the strawberry slipping between his lips that you follow with your own tongue.

It starts with red.)

—

You come from a family of believers.

Not so much of anything in particular. Religion and conspiracies, fashion trends and aliens.

Lies and truth and everything in between.

You believe in people.

In everyone but yourself.


	108. Red Stars and Cold Iron (2016-10-20)

“Slash and burn,” your brother says, hand resting heavily on your shoulder. Even through your stab proof vest, you can feel the weight of each finger. “It’s what Mother would do,” he continues, a final squeeze of his hand–nearly painful for a moment–before he steps away completely.

It’s your choice, now: destroy these fledgling relationships you have, abandon your new allies-comrades-friends, follow your brother just like you used to follow your mother.

Or don’t.

It’s not really your choice, though, is it? Family isn’t a choice.

—

For an ex enforcement officer, Louie isn’t such a bad guy. Mother used to tell you to steer clear of such people–neutrality is what keeps them in the business, keeps them safe–even a former enforcement officer has unwanted ties that might trap you.

But Louie is… not necessarily honest, because lies are practically a currency of their own, but moral. As if integrity were something besides a burden.

He’s good to have beside you in a fight, has experience that you can learn from, and seems to be fond of you despite your standoffish ways.

Both of you have naturally crooked pinkies and hazel eyes.

Your mother and brother didn’t.

—

The first time you meet Caleb, he’s still going by the moniker ‘Angel’ and part of SOPH Corp’s team of publicity officers. More celebrities than actual security guards, chosen more for looks and charisma than battle prowess and constantly followed by cameras.

He stole one of your first solo hunts–one that you’d spent months on tracking before finally confronting your target. You’d ended up on SOPH Corp territory, target apprehended and settled begrudgingly in the restraints; the bounty was so close you could nearly feel it.

And then 'Angel’ swoops in, armed with a bright smile and complex legalese and those ever present camera drones, and you are swept off the premises without your target, months of work down the drain and a new blooming hatred.

You don’t mind Caleb so much, but you don’t tell him that–after all, it took an explosion, replacement of nearly sixty five percent of his body with cybernetics, and the complete erasure of his public identity to get him to this point.

—

Neutrality keeps us safe, Mother said. Your brother, before he struck out on his own, had always considered it more of a guideline than a hard rule. A suggestion, even.

When he struck out on his own, it didn’t take long for his name to be connected to a team. For him to create and lead said team, his name at the forefront of it proudly.

Mother would frown, but stay silent on the matter. She could only teach, not enforce, no matter that all of you share a name and anything he did would affect you both as well.

When it’s your turn to go solo, you try harder to stick to your mother’s stance as if to make up for your brother’s actions. Being unaligned ought to mean you’re free from entanglements, but instead you end up with multiple grudges against you and far less favors.

Just one, actually.

Athena isn’t human, or not a normal human–a synthetically grown person cloned for a company’s profits, then abandoned when costs got too high. Now she’s a mafia famiglia’s asset, more computer than criminal, and the closest thing you have to a friend.

Taking out that stalker was almost a pleasure, even without being paid.


	109. Scarred Faith and Hope ficlet (2016-11-24)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are in a typical awkward elevator ride with a group of other people, suddenly a man says “So, I bet you are wondering why I’ve gathered you here” before hitting the emergency stop button.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> continues in next chapter

XingYan is closest, fastest, and–as the rest of the team will later learn–easiest to anger. She has the man shoved into the corner, forearm pressed his throat.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she asks the man, at the same time one of the other passengers shrieks the same to her.

The man wheezes, but otherwise doesn’t protest the chokehold. In fact, it’s someone else that tries to pull her away.

“Now, now,” says a different man, skin wrinkled not from age but from rough living. His clothes are worn, too, frayed and faded, but clean. He doesn’t put a hand on her, but he steps closer, near to insinuating himself between them.

Ex-military, XingYan reads in his stance. Commander, she hears in his tone.

“Why don’t we all settle down? Step back and let him explain himself. I’m sure Sol has a reason for all this.”

She might be able to take both of them in a fight, but she has no idea about the other passengers–which way they might fall if it comes to blows, if they can even help or if they’ll just be liabilities.

XingYan gives them space.

—

Minerva stays quiet, doesn’t bring any attention to herself, watches and waits and plans. If this ‘Sol’ has trapped her here with a purpose, then she wants to know what that purpose is. As well as who the hell these others are that they’ve all been gathered together for that purpose.

She begins researching, glasses faintly glowing as she pulls up browser windows, fingertips tapping silently against her palms. Lau XingYan is easiest to identify–unsurprising, considering they’ve worked together before.

Minerva is XingYan’s go-to for a hacker during bounty hunts, and on the rare occasion when Minerva needs something done in meatspace that she can’t handle herself, she calls XingYan.

Provided it’s not too illegal, of course.

The others take a little more digging.

Minerva has backdoors in Cascadia’s police database, and it doesn’t take too long to shake out the name of one Toby Kelly, alias 'Tiberius Overkill,’ who has been repeatedly arrested but never convicted on multiple charges of breaking and entering, petty and grand larceny, and, on one occasion, arson.

Considering the description of his personality, she’s surprised he’s staying out of the altercation, but perhaps that has more to do with the younger man–kid, really–that he’s trying to hide with his own body. Not that it’s hard, really, Kelly is quite tall while the kid… isn’t.

The kid is harder to find anything on, but given most minors wouldn’t have much of a record, it’s not too unexpected. What is unexpected is what she finds on the kid–not a burgeoning juvenile record as she would have expected from someone hanging out with Kelly.

The kid is Angelo Reyes, runaway heir to SOFCO, the largest and most successful company in the Pacific Northwest.


	110. Scarred Faith and Hope ficlet (2016-11-26)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> continues from previous chapter

Normally, Toby–no, Tiberius–wouldn’t be standing back and letting all the talking happen without him. Then again, normally it wouldn’t be talking, given whenever he’s involved things tend to get out of hand.

Hence, “Overkill.”

But he’s not just by himself anymore, he’s got Angelo to take care of. Angelo, who is gripping tightly to the hood of his jacket, head pressed against his back.

Claustrophobia and halted elevators do not mix.

But, well, the lawyer’s office they were coming to see is on the fifty second floor and no way was Tiberius going to walk up that many steps.

It seemed smart at the time.

“Hey, it’s cool, it’s okay,” he says to Angelo, turning around even though that puts his back to everyone else in the elevator. Puts his back to Lau who, on multiple occasions, has arrested him for whatever bounty may be on his name at any given moment.

“I’m here, you’re not alone, I’ve got you,” he continues, wrapping an arm around Angelo’s shoulders. “Your parents aren’t here.”

Rich people, man. Rich does not mean good.

—

Once Sol is back on his feet, the young woman removing her arm and taking a step back, Fred takes his own turn at interrogating Sol just with less hostility.

“Sol,” he says, patience and belied by the tightening of his fists, “You come to me, ask me to visit you, my old friend, and then what? Trap us and these fine people in an elevator? What is it that you think this will accomplish?”

He can hear the shifting of the other passengers, cloth rustling, murmurs between the two boys. Well, perhaps one of them is not a boy, but in comparison to you and Sol, all of the other passengers would be kid… Especially the one that is still an actual kid.

Sol shakes his head, looking contrite, “Fred, I have brought your here under false pretenses, though it is always good to see you. It has been too long since we last met.”

The young woman crosses her arm, the creaking of leather ominous.

“I would not pull you out of retirement, Fred, or disturb all of you,” Sol says, addressing the other passengers, “were I not in dire straights.”

“This is a shitty way to ask for a favor,” the young woman says, “And I don’t work for free.”

At this, Sol smiles, “Now who ever said it would be for free?”


	111. Untitled (2016-11-29)

We were us, once, in the beginning. Not two, but halves of a whole, a set, together.

But now you are you and I am me and we are not always us. Now, sometimes, when you say we you don’t mean you and me. You mean you and them.

Them: a group without me. But not necessarily without you.

Once, that never crossed our minds.

Our and we and us. Oh, how things have changed.

—

Love is a choice. Blood is a fact. Affection is a feeling.

So is attraction.

Some choices are made for us, guided down this path. Family means coexisting, cooperation–love makes that easier, paves the way. Choices, function, together.

Affection makes love easy, too.

Attraction might… but it also might not.

—

Attraction starts in the eyes (the ears, the fingertips), settles in the heart, then lays siege to the mind.

I’ve seen it in the faces of people around you, the ones who lean toward you helplessly, flowers toward the sun.

Attraction is a force, magnets and gravity, unstoppable and universal.

Except, it seems, not for you.

—

I am not above attraction. Not that it is something lowly. It simply is, whether it is actually simple.

Like with other people, I can feel attraction. The curve of a smile, the sound of a voice, the heat between skin on skin.

In this, I am part of them. In this, we means me but not you.

In this, attraction is what sets us apart.


	112. Untitled (2017-01-02)

“Hey,” she says to herself in the mirror, one damp hand wiping away the steam from the shower. Drops of water trickle down her temple, down her cheek, onto her chest.

There are bruises on her face, dark and furious and new.

“Be more careful,” she says to her reflection. In the mirror, the woman with her face blinks and looks away guiltily, hand raising to cover her own unbruised face.

“I know walking away from fights unscathed is your thing,” she continues, “but I have to go to work and this is getting suspicious.” She’s running out of cover up, too, running through it like water in a desert.

Her reflection nods, thoroughly chastened, before disappearing from the mirror.

She looks down–at the rest of her inherited wounds decorating her body–and begins the arduous process of hiding her cross dimensional connection.

—

 _When I die, cremate me._  
Destroy me, completely,  
until nothing but ashes remain.  
Preservation so futile against the march of time.

 _Take those ashes and return me to the earth,_  
mixed into soil,  
into the roots of fruit trees.

 _Apple and plum and lime,_  
avocado and pomegranate.  
Reaching high and burrowing deep,  
breathing, growing, living once more.

—

She is at work when the injury comes, blood blooming bright across her shirt. A gasp punched out of her as she grips her side, pen softly clattering against her desk.

“Shit,” she breathes through the pain, leaning heavily against the back of her swivel chair, “shit.”

Mirror, mirror. She needs a mirror.

Her free hand shakes, groping through her bag. She has a compact in their somewhere, but it’s as if everything is water slipping through her fingers.

Or blood.

“Serena, what’s going o-oh my god!” Daniel, from the cubicle next to hers, nosy but friendly enough. “Oh god, that’s a lot of blood! Oh jeez, oh god, oh jeez,” not exactly the calmest in an emergency, but she doesn’t exactly blame him.

She’s panicking, too.

“Ambulance,” she wheezes out, finally the touch of cool smooth metal beneath her fingertips.

On the cover of her compact is a never ending circle, impossible and crossing over itself, a single line with multiple paths. She flips it open, glass revealed, and even before her reflection appears, hisses,

“What the hell did you do?”


	113. Not My Fault - Pilot (2016-01-10)

“My fault?” Penelope shrieks, foot stomping down against the stone floor of the crypt. The tile sinks slightly, a soft click, a hiss of air–pressure plate.

Terry yanks her out of the way of an arrow shooting from the wall.

Still, Penelope continues her tirade, “It’s not my fault! You’re the one who brought us here in the first place!”

Bob narrows his eyes, hackles rising. Or maybe to shield his vision from the roaring fire beginning to surround them.

“Who was the one who pissed off the guards?” he asks, arms crossed over his chest.

As one, the three of them look toward Sandra who, sensing the stares, pulls her hand away from the open treasure chest. Her clone, less perceptive, keeps piling coins into her bag.

Affronted, Sandra lifts her chin, “If they didn’t make it so easy, I wouldn’t have outsmarted them. And anyway, they weren’t supposed to be on patrol yet according to Terry.”

The stares swing around, this time to Terry who has, up until now, been silently preparing an escape route for the team.

He shrugs, admits, “It might be my fault.”

—

Here is the story of how they all met:

Penelope, orphaned and abandoned, has always wanted to find her family. To do that, she makes her name as far spread as she can–performing and traveling.

It’s been years though, and no one has come forward. She thinks maybe they’re dead, sometimes even hopes for it.

After all, there aren’t that many shapeshifting centaurs named Penelope.

But even without that original reason, she still likes performing. She’s been accused of being a prima donna, and it’s true. She likes being the centaur of attention–pun extremely intended.

She’s also been accused of being a thief, and she can’t say that’s not true either.

Especially considering that’s how she met Terry.

—

Terry is a nickname. Short for Tearbjörn.

As in, Tearbjörn the pirate, wanted scourge of the sea.

He’s retired now–from the piracy, anyway–but still a fugitive from the law. Hence the nickname.

Well, he’s supposed to be retired. The landlocked lifestyle he had is far from the one he enjoyed at sea, but herding goats was a peaceful living and sometimes that’s all a half-zombie with super strength needs from the world.

Going to town to watch the traveling show was meant to be a one time thing. A small treat after a hellish winter ravaged the fields and roughed up his goat herd. A reward for having gone five years without a single act of crime.

And, maybe, that’s all it would have been if it hadn’t been for can’t-control-my-powers Sandra M Kotsifali.

—

Sandra has never been alone in her life.

And that’s the fucking problem.

Being able to make clones of herself sounds like a pretty sweet deal: she’ll never have to worry about moving by herself, can always be in multiple places at once, and–if necessary–fake her own death when the authorities are too close on her tail.

Of course, once in a while she’d like a little bit of alone time. Or, at least, not to be around herself. She can admit she’s a smartass and abrasive and way too impulsive–she’s seen it enough on her clones to know the truth. She’s not exactly good company; she doesn’t have enough patience to deal with herself.

And it certainly doesn’t help that her clones, along with being extremely disobedient, occasionally spontaneously appear without her say so.

Getting into a fight with the village’s only barkeep isn’t something that’s unusual to her, but this is the first time it’s been not actually her and resulted in the tavern going up in flames. Yet another town where she’ll have to fake her own death.

It might not have had to come to that, except the sheriff was far less willing to be sweet talked by a pretty elf after having been mind-controlled by Bob.

—

Bob admits he doesn’t know what he’s doing most of the time. Probably because, most of the time, he’s not all that sure who he is.

He’s not even sure if Bob is his real name.

All he knows is that he can read people’s emotions and, if pressed, control their minds for a while.

Which is convenient when you’re in jail for drunken disorderly conduct and the sheriff’s the only one with the keys.

It does leave him disoriented for a while, jumping back into his own body, so much so to leave it vulnerable to pick pocketing from a particular traveling centaur performer.


	114. Word Prompts (V4): Velvet

_I’d be so good to you_ , you think, watching the flush spread over his skin. Heat beneath your fingertips.

You have loved him for a long time. An eternity, it feels like.

He met you for the first time today.

You would be so good to him, maybe. But that is not the same as being good for him.

Today is all you will take from him. Today is all you will give yourself.

 _I’d be so good to you_ , you think once more, cupping his cheek in your hand, bringing your face close to his.

When he kisses you, soft and sweet, you try to memorize everything about this moment:

The texture of his lips, and the puffs of his breathing. The way his hand comes up to cradle at the back of your neck. At one point, you both open your eyes at the same time and chuckle into each other’s mouths.

You love him so goddamn much.

_… But I have to let you go._

—

There’s treasure hidden in this room.

Or that’s what she’d like you to think.

It’s crammed full with boxes and drawers and shelves, piled high against the walls. But they’ve encroached inward, invaded the clear, undefended flat lands–there is only enough space for the narrowest of pathways from the door to the center of the room.

Oh there’s treasure, perhaps, but only if you’re willing to mine for it.

—

It’s all you can do to focus on the sensations around you. The lining smooth against your skin, the smell of flowers cloying. Sunlight slants into the room, painted by stained glass windows.

It’s all you can do not to scream.

You blink, eyelids heavy, moisture collecting, accumulating, falling. You can’t look at him.

What’s left of him.

The two of you were going to break destiny.

And, in a way, you did.

The sky is bright and cloudless the day they bury his body in the ground.

You have your whole life in front of you now.

That should have been you in that coffin.


	115. Word Prompts (B27): Blood

“We don’t get to choose,” she says, thousand yard stare, fingers curled into tight, pale fists.

With the cloudy sky and gray, frothing ocean she is the image of every suffering heroine. Enduring, longing, betrayed.

No, it’s never a choice.

You hear the screeching of seagulls, sharp and high and punctuating ever roaring wave crashing against the rocks. The coastal winds whip her hair back, streaming banner proud. Even the faded red of her old sweater seems deliberate.

How picturesque her fury, how cinematic her grief.

Maybe, if she were a stranger, this would be art. Instead, you leave your camera untouched around your neck.

Some wounds should not be shared.

—

In a forest,  
green and growing.  
In a meadow,  
bright and blooming.  
Is a lake,  
still and waiting.  
For a girl,  
young and shining.

—

One night to fall in love.

The monitors beep, a shaky metronome for a song that does not yet exist.

Such unsteady ground to build a future.

But maybe you can do it.

He breathes, rasping and shallow, lungs so weak and tired. The energy that you saw before dimming with every second. His hand is so cold in yours.

You can save him, if you try. You might fail, even if you do. But at least you’ll have tried.

One night to fall in love.

He coughs. Harsh and pained and wet. Flower petals red against the bleached hospital sheets.

It’s not your fault, not your responsibility. There’s nothing tying you to this boy slowly dying.

You only met him today.

But he doesn’t deserve to die, for something so foolish as loving you. And maybe, if you try, you can save him before the night takes him away.

Maybe you can fall in love.


	116. Untitled (2017-03-23)

There is a story of a young goddess who comes to the earth in the form of a golden bird, then, a woman of unparalleled beauty.

She meets a prince of noble heart and they fall in love, but alas she cannot stay, she must return to her home in the heavens.

The prince beseeches her to choose earth, to choose him, to choose love, and for the length of one moonless night she considers it.

But ultimately the decision is not up to her, nor is it the prince’s, for there are two more characters in this story:

The goddess’ heavenly handmaiden, sent to watch over her mistress, and the prince’s loyal bodyguard, stalwart but severe.

There are three endings to this story–all of them dependent on the dance between handmaiden and bodyguard during that long moonless night.

—

Every day, it seems, you are reminded of how powerless you are. Always two steps behind and one to the left. Everything, even yourself, designed around her and her desires. Clothing and food, activities and lighting.

In the summer, you carry a parasol to protect her complexion from the sun. When it rains the umbrella in your hand is to keep her dry. Music is always set to her rhythm, not yours.

This is how it’s been your entire life.

She has power over you and doesn’t seem to be aware. If you ask for a favor, you make yourself vulnerable–she may choose to be generous, or she may reprimand you for being so daring. She does not ask you for favors, she gives you commands.

This entire sojourn has been a misadventure from beginning to end, and you know when you return it will not be her skin beneath the lash or even her neck below the blade.

This is your first time on earth, too. You are also a goddess.

And yet.

Tonight your mistress has gone to her mortal, and there is no moon tonight. There is no one but yourself to know these truths. Your actions are safe from prying eyes.

Or so you think.


	117. Word Prompts (R2): Rage

There are two types of anger.

Or, perhaps, there are more. But you are not really one for anger, usually, so for now you have only experienced two.

Maybe types is not the right word.

Maybe stages is better.

That first flare of heat and action. Muscles tensing, blood pumping. You can feel adrenaline coursing through your veins, fingers curled tight into fists.

If someone gave you a baseball bat you would not hesitate to swing.

You shout at everything, every little irritation, cursing the way you’ve only ever seen others do before. You punch at inanimate objects and scrape your knuckles, another flare of rage pushing you to greater heights.

The second is when you don’t come down.

This has never happened to you.

Before.

Usually, after an outburst, you’ve expelled your anger. Nothing left but shredded skin and tiny bleeds already beginning to scab over. Usually a scream or two is all it takes, a walk where the air can cool down your flush and your temper as well.

This time there is no catharsis.

This time your anger coils in on itself, impotent, unable to be released. Your anger ferments and steeps like the worst cocktail, like poison now, the adrenaline twisting your nerves, the tension in your head ratcheting more and more.

You’ve been angry for so long you’re sick of it. Exhausted. And yet you can’t seem to stop.

Welcome to stage two.


	118. The Adventures of Jack and Ness ficlet (2017-03-30)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Adventures of Jack and Ness are unrelated stories revolving around best friends in vastly different worlds and situations.

“I could die,” she said with a shrug, as cool as a cucumber. She said it the way one might say, “I could go for some ice cream,” or even “I could pick up some milk while I’m at the grocery store, if you’d like.”

The irony being, of course, that she was highly lactose intolerant.

Her offhand tone and casual demeanor nearly masked the content of her words, to which a generous narrator might attribute Jack’s belated, unhelpful response of:

“Um. Uh, Maybe?”

Unfortunately, the truth was that Jack was both awkward and frequently overcome by a dense fog of emotional incompetency. Now was one such occasion.

She laughed, if it could be called such. It was the laugh of a sailor encountering a shark in the middle of a hurricane–unimpressed, stressed, and yet, somehow, slightly amused. Toeing the line of hysterical, perhaps.

“You’re my best friend,” Jack said, rushed and cracked and desperately honest.

Ness sighed, “You’re mine, too.”

It was not new information and so, regretfully, it did not change anything.

—

There is a freedom in apathy; or so you think, at first.

It feels like ascending. Like leaving behind all of your worries and frustrations and grief. Like purging poison from your body, making you lighter–unburdened, relieved.

But not happier.

There is a danger in apathy.

Numb to pain, yes, but to pleasure as well. The things that used to make you smile are now overtired, trite baubles cluttering your space. Your favorite station is now just an annoying racket. Watering your little potted plant is a hassle.

You set your fingertips against an overheated panel and didn’t pull away until your skin began to blister.

But for a moment, you felt something.

Sadly, that something was curiosity.


	119. Untitled (2017-04-02)

“I didn’t think it’d be you,” he says, sitting across the table from her. The plate on his tray nearly overflowing with unappetizing, dark red mush.

“What?” Her fork pauses midway in its path to her mouth. A glob of distressingly orange macaroni falls, splattering messily. “Ah, geez, that’s going to stain.”

Almost apologetically, and yet, simultaneously,  unimpressed, he slides a napkin over to her.

“What is that?” she asks as a distraction, nodding at his own unfortunate choice of lunch while wiping furiously at her shirt. It is a lost cause.

“Beet surprise,” he answers.

Ew.

“You’re not curious about what I said earlier?” he asks, eyebrow raising.

It’s true that in the past ten years of knowing each other–the way people growing in the same small town know each other–they’ve maybe said less than twenty words. They aren’t exactly in different leagues, per se, but neither do they run in the same social circles.

She’s curious, but not enough to follow through. If he wants to explain, he will, if not then she’ll just chalk it up to a bizarre interaction and forget it in a matter of days.

She shrugs.

“I thought maybe it’d be Belinda,” he says, apropos of his opener. They both struggle not to stare at the school’s queen bee, before he continues, “her or maybe Kevin.”

Kevin. Her goofy looking, wall-flower of a best friend? Who could not be further from hyper-competent, stunningly gorgeous, Belinda? That Kevin?

“He volunteers at the library on weekends; Silva doesn’t let just anyone work there.”

Okay, now she’s just confused. “What does the old librarian have to do with anything?”

If anything, he looks confused right back, “He’s a magician, obviously,” which is bewildering enough until he adds,

“Just like us.”

—

She spends the rest of the school day vacillating between honestly contemplative, suspiciously irritated, and full blown discombobulated. She doesn’t so much mutter like a madwoman as she does make wildly disconcerting noises of confusion.

Kevin notices, says nothing, and offers her his emergency chocolate bar which is much appreciated even if it’s both melted and crumbly.

Once school is out, though, that’s a whole other story.

Mostly because resident rebel, weirdo who willingly chooses beet surprise over fake mac n’ cheese, and, apparently, teen magician Geoffrey Haider is leaning against her third-hand car impatiently.

“What are you doing?” she asks, drawing herself up to full height. At five foot three, it’s unimpressive, but it prompts Kevin to do the same. He’s gangly and awkward, but six feet plus of sharp bones and overlarge hoodies is more impressive than her own efforts.

“We’re going to the library,” Geoffrey–who doesn’t even have the decency to spell his name with a J–says, which deflates Kevin’s posturing immediately. Unsurprisingly, he loves the library, and would much rather do his homework there than in the food court of the mall where she works at the Hotdog on a Stick even if she does give him endless refills on lemonade.

Kevin turns hopeful eyes to her, and curse his boyishly endearing face.

“Fine,” she huffs, already trying to figure out an excuse to text to her manager, opening the trunk of the car and tossing her backpack inside, “But if I get fired, I’m blaming you.”

No way is she getting fired. The uniform for Hotdog on a Stick is a travesty, and no one but potheads and people with no shame are willing to work there.


	120. Untitled (2017-04-09)

“Come here,” your grandmother says, the same confident tone as always–that all who hear her, maybe the very world itself, will conform to her whim–the smallest gesture of her hand to punctuate the statement.

You obey immediately, walking forward and stopping just short of where she is seated, the dust and dirt from your trousers brushing against the vibrant blue and purple blanket draped over her lap. You can’t meet her eyes, locked on to your own intertwined and fidgeting fingers.

“I said, come here,” she repeats, reaching up towards your face–you crouch down to accommodate her. The grip around your chin is firm but not painful. She turns your head this way and that, inspecting, and you follow as she moves you. You lean into her hand, skin thin and cool and papery, bony and frail, and yet comforting.

When she pulls her hand away, it is wet with your tears.

You haven’t seen her in so long.

“What is with that hair?” she asks, and your immediate laughter in response is wet and nasally, clogged.

“It’s the style,” you say, “Asymmetry is in.”

“Hmph, I know that,” she says, “But it’s so messy! Don’t you comb it?”

You don’t own a hairbrush. It’s short enough that you can just run your fingers through it get rid of tangles.

You cannot tell this to your grandmother, who was a school matron and known citywide for her poise and etiquette.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, instead, patting the empty seat beside her.

You collapse into it, slouching towards her, never mind your terrible posture.

“I didn’t mean to,” you say in a quiet voice, small and simple and sorry, as if you were still the four year old that broke your grandmother’s prettiest tea set out of curiosity. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

You did much worse than destroy heirloom ceramics this time around.

She raises a hand to your face once more, but you close your eyes–you can’t bear to see the disappointment on her face.

Without sight, your other senses are amplified. The scent of your grandmother’s flowery perfume, the contrast of the chair’s upholstery against the scraping, crunching, of shattered glass on pavement.

The sound of sirens, fire flickering, metal and gasoline and smoke on the air.

“I didn’t mean to,” you repeat, and cry again.

More than that broken tea set, more than your messy hair and the dust on your trousers and your terrible posture. More than the cuts on your arm and the blood oozing through your shirt and what you think is a bone shard poking through your forearm.

More painful and shameful and awful than all that is telling your grandmother–who you loved so much, who you have not seen in eight years–that you didn’t mean to die…

… and her knowing that you are lying.


	121. Word Prompts (S69): Sparkle

It doesn’t take much, just a glimmer in the corner of your eye, something that makes you pause. Makes you turn. Makes you consider: what if?

You are already an adult when this first happens to you.

When most children your age were off playing make believe, pretending to be superheroes or magicians or spies, you were content with staying inside. You learned how to read from the out of date magazines on the table of you mother’s nail salon, colors for you had letters and numbers. You grew up knowing better than to ask for the latest toy in the market, not when you were so keenly aware of how much (or how little) the salon made every month.

As you get older, you try your best. You help out where you can, sweep up hair and crunch the numbers and–when technology allows for it–boost the online presence of the salon, small though it may be. You run the accounts, try to give it an overhaul, but still the salon struggles.

You graduate and think: you don’t want it.

Ungrateful as it may seem, you don’t want the salon. It’s not your dream–hell, you’re not even sure if it was your mother’s dream, either–but it’s not something you want to take over. It’s your home, yes, and part of you will always love it, will always be nostalgic for tiles and walls and soothing nature sounds on loop, but you don’t want your future to be tied down to this. You don’t want to live and die here, chained to this anchor of a business that has always grounded you.

You are an adult and for the first time in your life you want to be something–someone–else.

You are an adult when, out of the corner of your eye, like a coin sparkling in the sun, you see a different path for yourself.


	122. Untitled (2017-04-22)

It is easy to become the king’s Favored, for kings are whimsical and easily pleased. But it is far less easy being the king’s Favored.

Nobody talks about the after.

After you’ve completed the impossible task. After you’ve slain the giant or rescued the princess or guessed the fairy’s name and brought glory to the kingdom. After the wedding and the treasure and the happily ever after.

Nobody talks about it, but is not the being more important than the becoming? The existing more difficult than the creation?

Once you were a common peasant, plucked from your charming, simple life and thrust into a daring adventure. Now you are the king’s Favored, and your life is hell.


	123. Word Prompts (K7): Knight

“Will it open today?” you ask, sitting curiously before The Guardian of The Tower. Grass is prickling at your skin through your dress, but it is ticklish not scratchy.

The Guardian and The Tower have been here long before you were born, long before your parents or grandparents were born, too, which is practically an eternity ago.

The Guardian has never spoken as far as your memory stretches, but you are only six years old.

In a creak of metal, it shakes its head, left then right, never moving from its place.

That’s okay, you enjoy its company anyway.

///

You are nine years old now and not much has changed.

Your grandmother died last year, making your father king now, but your life is much the same.

The Guardian never speaks, never moves except to shake its head, but you think it enjoys your company just as much.

There is a festival today and you’ve bought it a beautiful, vibrant scarf. More decoration than warmth, true, but you think it will appreciate the gift.

You tie the scarf to its arm, bright and colorful against its metal.

Now, whenever you ask it questions, it will also nod its head.

///

You are twelve, much more mature, and terribly scared.

Your kingdom is at war.

Your mother is out leading the armies and so all you see is your father’s increasingly stressed and haggard face on the rare occasions when he can join you for meals.

The Guardian and the base of The Tower have always been your haven, but never have you felt so much a refugee in your own home.

The metal is far from comfortable, but it is cool against your cheek and the newest scarf flaps gently in the breeze.

You don’t ask The Guardian if everything will be okay.

///

You are fifteen.

Your mother has died on the front lines and your father is close enough to it. Your kingdom has been ravaged and over the years has become a shell of itself.

There are talks of marriage–you, reduced to a trophy for the winner. You feel sick.

Desperately, you run to The Tower. It is night now, but you know the pathway in your sleep.

There are no more new scarves for The Guardian, the old ones faded and threadbare from weather and sunshine. It almost makes you forget the war.

“Today?” you ask, grass prickling against your bare feet, “Will it open today?”

The Guardian does not shake its head, does not nod either, and for a heavy, awful moment you think that it has left you, too.

Instead, it moves, metal creaking and screeching and frightening and unfamiliar; it steps aside revealing a doorway.

“Enter,” it says, voice reverberating in your chest.

///

You step into The Tower, ascending the steps, looking back only once.

Before the doorway closes once more, you see The Guardian resume its place.

You will be safe.


	124. Word Prompts (M7): Mask

“Do. Not. Move,” she seethes, words hissed out between clenched teeth. “I will tear out your throat,” she warns.

Foolishly, he twitches. Immediately, he jerks back and freezes.

She narrows her eyes at him, suspicious, but after a few beats more of motionless, she turns away.

The boarded up cave mouth has three peepholes and the aliens are coming. She watches and waits.

///

Her first instinct upon being faced with alien invaders was to cover herself in blood and hide in the massive freezer in the back.

Not really the best move considering her cute and summery outfit, but she only barely got hypothermia, so she’s fine.

Now she wears borrowed trousers and a stolen bomber jacket, pockets filled with extra ammo, a grenade, and the bits and pieces of alien technology she’s scavenged off the few invaders they’ve managed to kill.

Phone lines have been down for days.

She hasn’t heard from her family in longer than that.

///

The mini cooper convertible is tiny and bright red, completely impractical and absolutely silly. It has an unnecessary racing stripe and a stuffed panda toy hanging from the rearview mirror.

It’s such a spot of ludicrous normality, so out of place at the end of the world, that she can’t help but laugh. Loud and bright and full of unsaid worries.

The tank is full, the keys are in the ignition, and it reminds her of being a teenager and pulling reckless tricks in the school parking lot that she does a donut for the hell of it.

When a scouting party lands, they run over three aliens together before speeding headlong into the bay.

She keeps the panda toy for months after.

///

Becoming a captain of The Resistance was mostly accidental.


	125. Untitled (2017-09-16)

If I don’t say anything–not out loud, not where anyone can hear.

If I don’t write it down–don’t leave proof, no records, no trace.

If I don’t admit it happened, then did it really?

But just asking that means something existed to be asked about. To be willfully forgotten and thrown into the oblivion.

It’s not a big deal, the fuss makes it worse than it is, and yet some part of me still wants it to be buried.

///

It’s stupid. Silly. Not even a second, just the briefest of moments.

God, why am I even still thinking about it? Hours after it happened. Still blushing and running hands through my hair, nervous and coy and bewildered.

Flustered.

He winked at me, mouth curved into a sideways smile.

It was aimed at me. For me, an inside joke for the two of us. Just a small comment given a touch of humor and a delicate layer of secrecy.

It didn’t mean anything.

My heart is still fluttering.

///

Here’s the thing: he’s not the most handsome guy I’ve ever seen.

I’ve seen more classically beautiful men, met far smoother charmers. He’s not even my most handsome friend. He’s just one of the guys who, yes, has very nice eyes and a way of making me laugh.

And, I mean, I’ve thought about it before. When I first joined the group, learning as much as I can about the members as I tried to find a space for myself… he helped with that, it’s true… and I know that, if he has a type, then I’m not far from it.

But still!

It’s been months–over a year–why now?

Why him?

Why me?

///

(You were gone for two weeks, and it both did and didn’t seem so long. Weekends punctuated by hanging out with the guys replaced by keeping track of drunken bachelorettes and high strung actors and slightly ill relatives.

You spotted him, once, driving in the opposite direction–head unconsciously, unwillingly, turning to watch him go by.

You missed them all, of course, through it wasn’t very long.

Maybe you missed him the most.)


	126. Untitled (2017-09-18)

I miss you, my friend.

And how weird to be saying this now–more than a year after you’ve left, thousands of miles away–more to your shadow than your face.

I guess I thought–I assumed, that is–that you’d be coming back. And you might very well do so, but I never thought there was a possibility that you wouldn’t. That you wouldn’t want to.

Which speaks more of how you’ve changed.

And how I haven’t.

Even if–when, no, if–you come back, what we had, what we might have, will never be the same.

—

We talk. Or, rather, we message each other. Sporadically.

Part of the reason why I was so thrown off guard.

Over a decade of being each other’s shoulder to cry on, of baring our vulnerabilities to each other, that we’ve fallen into patterns that miss the entire story.

You fell in love–with the land and the people and the work, which you had for months entrusted your… less than stellar opinions on… but the more your grew to love it, the more it made you happy, the less I heard about it.

And so my picture is only half formed, a grueling climb up but no final, breathtaking view at the summit. I saw only your stress and strain and none of the smiles that made it worth it.

I only know the you from a year ago, not who you are now.

—

Even when you were here, when we were together, we were apart.

Instead of thousands of miles, it was hundreds, and we only saw each other rarely.

But still. That was enough.

Because it was as if, whenever we reunited, the only things that had changed between us were the stories we could tell each other.

And it was enough, every time, to renew our friendship.

I never believed in soulmates, I have more than enough family to spare, but it seemed to me that we matched. Had perhaps formed ourselves to match, subconsciously, as we grew up and learned together.

You’ve grown without me, far far away, and I don’t know if our shapes still correspond.

—

Perhaps I’m being over dramatic.

I left, too, for a year. Grew into my own–or so people say–though really it just felt like a chance to be a better, brighter me with a deadline if I didn’t like it.

And immediately after I came back, you left, too. Not as long, but much farther, and I know you discovered a version of yourself as well.

But we wrote letters to each other, digital as they were, made time when neither of us had much to see each other’s faces, hear each other’s voices.

But this time… is this what we’re reduced to without our safety net of technology?

—

I’m being silly, I know.

I’m so happy for you, so proud. So overjoyed that you’ve found yourself even if it’s not a version of you that I’ve met.

But I miss you, and they are not mutually exclusive.

I’m just feeling homesick for you.


	127. Untitled (2017-09-26)

Give them enough rope to hang themselves.

A cunning, cruel, almost hungry statement. Vindictive. Waiting patiently for the inevitable, bloody comeuppance. A predator in the grass, calmly running down their prey to exhaustion.

Prometheus was punished by the gods for giving humanity fire–light, warmth, intelligence. In the myth he is a hero unjustly punished for his generosity. But what if that’s not the case?

Give them fire, watch them burn.

In a different story, there was another who gave humanity intelligence–or, at least, gave them the idea to seize it for themselves.

A predator in the grass.

A new dawn for humanity.

Light bringer playing the long game.

—

“Go home!” he shouts, straining and desperate, eyes wide and burning, “Just go home, okay? It’ll all be okay, just go home!”

You stumble backwards, obeying subconsciously but unable to break his gaze. This may be the last time you see him which, if you listen to him and he’s telling the truth, may very well mean that this image is the last memory of him you’ll keep.

You’re not sure if future-you will want to remember him like this, trapped and fighting–losing–and sacrificing himself for your foolish, useless self, but it’d be disrespectful not to take it in while you can.

Forgetting would be worse.

You take another faltering few steps backwards, his shouts have turned into pained screams, his wide eyes no longer seeing you. Only then do you turn and run for your life.


	128. Untitled (2017-10-11)

“I was here first,” she says, knuckles turned pale with her tight grip on the door handle. Her back is to you, forehead pressed against the door. You can’t see her face, but her shoulders shudder, once, twice.

“I was here first,” she repeats, “I was here long before you,” she continues.

“Yes,” you respond, “I know.” It’s not like her to make such obvious and repetitive statements–there must be a reason–then again, it’s not like her to cry.

The lock turning makes a heavy thunk; she removes the key a shaking hand.

When she turns around there is only the barest trace of tears on her face. Still, she has never looked more heartbroken.

When she places the key in your hand, her fingers brush against yours, cold to the touch.

“You will devote your life to this place,” she says, less command and more premonition, “you will protect this house, you will give your all, your everything.”

Your hand curls around the key, so tightly that the teeth bite into your skin. You would not be the first Caretaker whose blood has polished the key. It is poignant.

“Yes. I will.”

///

The day of your daughter’s wedding, you reunite with the love of your life.

You are walking her down the aisle, trying not to cry, and perhaps that’s why at first it doesn’t register. Your eyes filled with unshed tears, your attention on your daughter, the setting sun painting everything in soft but blinding light.

You let your daughter go, watch her walk to the man she loves, and take your seat.

It’s a moment of curiosity. Mere coincidence. Your eyes landing on the right spot at the right time.

Or, perhaps the wrong one.

Across the aisle, in the seat corresponding to yours, sits the father of the groom.

The years have changed him, aged him and reshaped him, but you recognize him in a heartbeat. A skipped one.

There he is. The long lost love of your life.


	129. Untitled (2016-11-15)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> related to chapter 124

Her squad is a bunch of dumb boys who almost never follow orders and barely scrape out mission successes through sheer luck.

Like captain, like squad, she guesses.

///

Ryan’s their sniper. Long and skinny and as active as a sloth. He can wait for hours–days, once, in Nevada–in his roost in anticipation for the perfect shot. 

Once, she spent a afternoon convinced she was alone in their headquarters only to prove herself wrong when she sat on the couch and spotted Ryan under their makeshift coffee table painting a still life of shoes and empty bullet casings.

He never misses a shot.

///

Peter is the youngest; a walking encyclopedia and social disaster, both.

Before they figured out the latter, they tried to use his baby face on a diplomatic mission–The Resistance isn’t the only organization of survivors, but they are, probably, the most effective–needless to say, his vivid blushing and stammered, incoherent pick up lines on the commander were less than appreciated.

Still, there’s no one better for obscure historical facts, navigation, and matching up what little excess supplies they have with what other people inexplicably want.

He’s still their dumb hamster child, though.

///

Vinny is her second in command. She can trust him to get the job done if she sends him off on his own and if she has him go off with one of the others as a leaner, stealthier fire-team then, well, she knows they’ll both come back to her alive.

He has a somewhat worrying preference for eyeball stabbing and a frustrating tendency to hoard guns, but given the current environment she figures neither of them are entirely bad things.

///

Chuck, their general, is a man with gray in his hair, sharp blue eyes, and a photograph which he always carries but never looks at.

Once, when he was transferring it from pocket to pocket, she caught a glimpse of it: a pair of kids, a smiling round-faced woman, and a man right beside her who might very well have been her superior officer in a kinder, happier world.

///

Nate has surprisingly zero qualms about following the orders of a woman less than half his age.

Most other members of The Resistance attribute that to a lack of… spine… but she knows better: he was a well decorated vet before the aliens invaded, served three tours on the same ship as Chuck before they both got promoted up and away.

By rights, he ought to be running The Resistance alongside Chuck or, at the very least, his own squad. But she thinks he likes not having that much responsibility.

He would rather fix radios and poke at the sleeping behemoth that was once the internet–occasionally making sure the bunch of reckless children around him have the equipment they need before they run off to pull off even more reckless stunts–than have such a large part in the fate of humanity.

///

Anton is her least favorite, which seems like such a petty, childish thing to say at the end of the world.

He’s part of her squad, so of course she’ll treat him the same as the others, but still. She’s not very fond of him.

It’s not as if he’s an awful person: he’s nice and smart and genuine–and under duress she’d admit his face is maybe aesthetically on point–but everytime he smiles at her, or tries to talk to her outside missions, she tenses up and runs away.

One time she even let Peter ramble on about his grandfather’s coin collection for three hours just so she could shrug helplessly at Anton from across the room.

He’s a good soldier, competent and sharp–hell, she’ll even say that he’s a good teammate, a good person!

The only issue is that he knows who she used to be.

///

Her squad is a bunch of dumb boys who almost never follow orders and barely scrape out mission successes through sheer luck.

Bizarrely enough, she wouldn’t change them for anyone else.


	130. Loyal Needles, 1/? (2018-01-03)

“But,” Riz stutters, staring at hir own hands blindly, searching for answers. None of this past day has made any sense.

“But it was my destiny.”

—

Every year, Riz returns home for the winter solstice. It has less to do with the festive season–though, admittedly, there is some of that, too–and more to do with the whole “hir blood and presence is a vital component of an annual ritual to ward off a demon invasion.”

But there is a feast, at least, which makes it a little bit less of a chore.

—

Almost a century ago, a demon crossed the barrier between the worlds.

Its name has been lost to time, but the tale of its terrible actions have not.

Only through the bravery and skill of five heroes could the demon be defeated.

But not before it got its clutches in the fifthe hero.

—

Riz is nine decades old.

Practically ancient as far as human lifespans are concerned, but young for what zie is.

And thus zie is caught between knowing so much, but not necessarily understanding.

—

The fifth hero, in an act of ultimate selflessness, sacrificed themself to seal away the demon.

However the demon was too powerful.

In order to ensure their fallen companion’s sacrifice was not in vain, the remaining four heroes created a ritual to strengthen the seal.

—

Riz remembers every villager born in the town: what they were like as children and who they became as adults. Many of them have had children and even grandchildren of their own, Riz watching over every generation with fondness.

Zie has also witnessed as the other remaining heroes aged, their own descendants replacing them in the ritual as years passed.

In contrast, Riz is always the same.

—

Every year, the blood and presence of the four remaining heroes is used to strengthen the seal and keep the demon at bay.

For almost a century, this works.

Until it doesn’t.

—

When Riz draws hir bleeding hand away, zie looks around confused and not a little bit frightened. The village around them looks distorted, a warped reflection with all the details unnervingly off; except for the other descendants, there is no one around.

Something is wrong.


	131. Loyal Needles, 2/? (2018-01-08)

“No more ritual,” Siobhan says, soot streaked across her face and somewhat literal fire in her eyes.

“No more heroes.”

—

Siobhan comes from a long line of perfectionist, preparatory pessimists–also, powerful psychics.

It’s for this reason that she hates the winter solstice with a passion. The ritual is only a stopgap: it’s only a matter of time before the seal fails.

—

She heals her hand with an irritated flicker of thought, shooting quick, assessing glances around.

Some kind of pocket dimension mirroring the village, it seems.

Given the atmosphere, it’s a fairly easy guess on who it belongs to.

—

Siobhan’s grandmother was one of the original heroes–although with, perhaps, a loose definition of the term hero. She spent most of her life making cutthroat deals with spirits and lesser devils and only paused long enough to stop the greater, chaotic evil from making the world unlivable.

Only the expectations and scrutiny of the world stopped Siobhan’s mother from doing the same.

—

She eyes the other descendants, not suspiciously–she sees them at least every year, they’re idiots not evil–but definitely skeptically.

Of the heroes they may all be, but heroes themselves they are not.

As is, she’s quite sure she’s going to have to ride herd so as to ensure nobody dies.

—

When it came to psychic training, Siobhan wasn’t so much thrown in the deep end as she was chucked in river rapids with stones tied to her limbs and told that only a mere hundred feet was a waterfall.

Needless to say, it is not vanity or exaggeration when she says she’s the most powerful psychic in the world; their home world, that is.

This world is a whole other story.


	132. Sweeper (2018-03-20)

You’re on the train, night gone dark outside, lights streaming smears across the windows. Your eyes blink slowly, heavier each time, behind your sunglasses. You know you look like a massive tool, but the fluorescent lights of the train are so bright and also you can’t accidentally make eye contact with another passenger.

You blink again, slower, lingering longer closed.

One headphone in your ear because at least one means occupied but both reduces your awareness and that just cannot be done. You are sitting alone, but you are not looking for company. The train car you’re in smells mildly of piss, but better than the vomit of the first car. And plus, everything in the city smells mildly of piss.

You blink once more, the voices of strangers making jokes in one ear, and when you open your eyes fully you are not alone. You don’t startle, only because you are too lethargic to startle, but you do tense. Slowly shift away.

After two stops, after your seat mate hasn’t said anything, you begin to gradually relax. Another two stops and you’ll be disembarking. No worries.

As the next stop approaches, your seat mate stands, and you relax even further, relief washing over you.

Except then your seat mate looks back at you. Makes eye contact with you–somehow, despite the sunglasses–and says, “Well, come on. Don’t want to keep your sister waiting. Boss has a job for you, Sweeper.”

You tense all over again, caught, but stiffly and swiftly make your way to your feet. Adrenaline has replaced the lethargy in your blood.

Your sister is not one for patience. You shudder to think what she’s done that requires your services.


	133. Sweeper (2018-03-22)

You stand and feel the weight of yourself, your exhaustion, in your joints. Knees stiff and near to creaking, echoing up your nerves. Your calf itches. Slowly, so as not to move more than necessary, you lift your opposite foot to scratch at it. Quietly, you put your foot back down.

The man standing guard outside the door glances at you, then away, dismissive. Your weight resettles along the soles of your feet. You are so tired. Your sister is cruel.

Would it hurt anyone to give you a chair? It’s been almost two hours since you were ambushed on the train. What a hypocrite. You cannot keep her waiting, but your time, apparently, is worthless.

You tamp down the anger, will your heartbeat to slow, you do not have the luxury of anger here, not in your sister’s stronghold. The man standing guard, as if sensing your disloyalty to his boss, glances your way once more. This time his gaze lingers, his mouth twitches, but he stays silent and looks away again.

He wears a suit, well tailored, or so you think, you are not an expert in mens formalwear. So like your sister to multitask, make her employees protection and eye candy both.

You are not self-conscious about your own appearance, rumpled and casual it may be. You were on a train that smelled of piss, heading home after a day of cleaning more and other bodily fluids. If your sister wanted you gussied up just to wait two hours in her chair-less waiting room, she should have let you go home and shower.

Your knees start to buckle. You have no idea who you’re trying to impress. The guard? Your sister? Clearly you’ve already failed on the former, and the latter has never been impressed with you. You allow your knees to bend, let gravity pull you down further. You might as well sit even if there are no chairs.

You feel much better. From this new angle, seated cross-legged on the floor, you notice the scuff marks on the guard’s shoes. Your exhaustion pulses. You let your eyes droop. You could nap, maybe, just a quick one to shore yourself up before seeing your sister.

A beep sounds from the guard’s wrist. He glances at his watch, at you, at the door, before reaching for the handle. “Sweeper,” says the guard, “Boss will see you now.”

For a moment you are filled with hate before you tamp that down, too. As it recedes, you imagine saying something witty, something cutting, but you let it ebb further into apathy. This is your sister’s stronghold.

You get to your feet.


	134. Sweeper (2018-03-26)

For all that the outside of your sister’s stronghold is a mess–officially a foreclosed warehouse covered in grime and rust–the inside is well maintained and clean. One of the few things that you share. The hardwood floors practically gleam despite the dim hallway lights, not a cobweb in sight even on the obnoxious wall sconces or the pretentious drapes.

The fabric of your clothes may be old and worn in comparison to the luxuries of the place, but there is no denying they’re clean.

As you pass by, you nudge one of the trinkets on display; not enough to push it off the shelf, but just enough to offset it from its original spot. The metal still shines, no fingerprints, of course.

There is another guard standing outside an ornate door at the end of the hallway. You stop before it at the third door from the end, less ornate, but for all the meticulous tidying, the one with the most wears and marks. You knock.

The second guard stares at you, assessing, and does not look away. The first guard was more for appearances, in training perhaps, or your sister’s version of a receptionist. This second guard is tactical. Let her enemies think she is behind the guard, behind the nicest door, they walk right past her and within her second guard’s reach.

Alternatively, the second guard does have a better shot at anyone entering this third door from the end.

You do not knock again. You stare back at the second guard.

After what seems like a yawning eternity, the second guard nods, greets you, “Sweeper,” and walks over to open the door for you.

You nod back. You say, “Thank you, Deuteronomy.” You step through the doorway.

Your sister’s office is a disaster, desk overturned and files flung across the room. Shattered glass glitters on the floor, water and aquarium plants strewn alongside it, but that is not the worst of it. A body lies–blood pooling around it, gone dark and nearly matte with time–on your sister’s second favorite rug.

Your sister, sitting on the floor cross-legged puts out her cigarette on its face. Flings the butt carelessly into the pool, it sticks, tacky. There is no blood on her clothes, but there are still some spatters on her face, her neck, beneath her fingernails in crimson moons. Changed, then, but not showered.

It is quite the mess.

“Sweeper,” your sister says. She does not look pleased to see you, but this, of all things, you do not take personally.

None of your clients are pleased to see you.

You do another scan of the room, lingering on the bodies’ face. Not someone you recognize off the top of your head, but your sister has always been more of a people person, and no doubt she’ll tell you its identity soon enough. You eye the life size portrait of your grandmother, slightly askew from where it hangs on the wall.

“What is it you need swept?” you ask your sister, but you already suspect what it might be; you do not turn away from that askew portrait to face her. Your suspicions are confirmed when she, too, looks to the portrait.

Or, more accurately, to the vault door hidden behind the portrait.


	135. Untitled (2018-03-28)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A weird and somewhat embarrassingly cliche dream. Unsure if a weird manga-like world where everyone has animal features or if it was more the symbolic but the following:
> 
> A young jaguar cub, hurt and hungry and lost in a massive city of cement and steel. An old turtle, scarred but kind, happens upon him and adopts the cub. They leave the city and live in a small house in the country, where the turtle has many strange visitors but they otherwise live as happily as they can.
> 
> The turtle tries, of course, but reptiles are not so good at childcare, not like mammals. In an effort to do the right thing, the turtle looks for any trace of missing jaguar cubs. They take a trip to Brazil in hopes that will make things easier, but no avail. They are both a simultaneously disappointed but relieved by that.
> 
> The jaguar cub grows up. The turtle grows old. The turtle dies.
> 
> Turtles live long, but not forever, and this turtle lived a long and dangerous life.  
> That life catches up with the jaguar, but not in a bad way. The turtle had many businesses in the city and while he does not need to supervise them, the jaguar does have to introduce himself to them especially in this upcoming month. The turtle was also once a loyal servant and advisor to a great dragon.
> 
> That dragon has a son who has declared his intention to court the jaguar.
> 
> The jaguar is bewildered. The jaguar does not understand that the dragon son is royalty. The jaguar has no idea that the month long festival in the city in honor of the royal family (and in a Cinderella-esque attempt to get the dragon son betrothed to the many eligible beings in the city).
> 
> The capybara, a third generation immigrant from Brazil who manages one of the turtle’s-now-jaguar’s businesses and is the jaguar’s friend as he navigates city rhythm after a life of sheltered, country living is completely aware of all of this and amused as hell.
> 
> The scene I specifically dreamed:

“And you’re sure you’ve never met him before?” Capybara asks, wiping down the counter. It’s unnecessary–she has exacting standards and excellent employees–but she finds the movement familiar and soothing.

She’s not the only one, clearly, as Jaguar sleepily blinks at her in response to the question. She waits, patient, Jaguar will answer her soon enough.

“Hm,” he hums, trying to recall. She likes that he is not quick to speak, considers his words before he utters them. “I was mostly out in the country and the town we lived in was so small I can name everyone. Grandfather had visitors from time to time, but they were all adults…”

Capybara waits once more, he is not finished speaking, she does not believe in interrupting people. And anyway, she thinks this quiet recollection suits the the half lit closed bakery.

“… we did travel, once, to Brazil when I was younger. But I don’t remember interacting much with anybody besides Grandfather. Surely I would remember?” Jaguar sounds so honestly confused that Capybara attempts to answer:

“If you were young enough, maybe not,” she says with a shrug, “Most everyone’s childhood memories are… hazy to some extent. Though if it were such a significant meeting that he decided to court you after all these years, it would be harder to forget.” And given who Dragon is, it’s unlikely that their meeting would have been anywhere but in this city.

But Jaguar’s gaze has drifted off, clearly struggling with a particularly barbed thought.

Capybara’s family has managed this bakery for Turtle since they immigrated here decades ago. Her grandmother was the one who suggested the trip to Brazil. They sent care packages of traditional baked goods twice a month up until Jaguar temporarily relocated to the city and he came to the bakery on a near daily basis instead.

She knows some of Jaguar’s background. Not enough to interrupt as he wrestles with his memories, but enough to be there when he finally breaks away.

“… maybe Before?” Jaguar says so hesitantly, so reluctant yet brave, that Capybara reaches out to give him a comforting pat. Jaguar gives a shaky grin in return and they put the moment to rest.

After a pause, Capybara asks, “Regardless of the why, are you okay with this situation?” Because Dragon or no, if Jaguar isn’t okay, Capybara will throw down.

He looks up at her, startled, then away, almost shy. Poorly trying to hide a smile.

Capybara nods, “Then we proceed in such a way that you will be happy.”


End file.
